UC-NRLF 


2M3    fib? 


Y 


P  William  jlacLeoH  Eame 

PUBLISHED   BY 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


THE  YUKON  TRAIL.     Illustrated. 
STEVE  Y EAGER.    Illustrated. 


THE  YUKON  TRAIL 


(Seepage  168) 


NOW  HE  CAUGHT  HER  BY  THE  SHOULDERS 


THE  YUKON  TRAIL 

A  TALE  OF  THE  NORTH 

BY 

WILLIAM  MACLEOD  EAINE 


With  Illustrations  by 
George  Ellis  Wolfe 


BOSTON   AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

flitoerj&ibe  prcg*  Cambridge 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,    1917,   BY   WILLIAM   MACLEOD   RAINB 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  May  IQIJ 


TO 
MY    BROTHER 

EDGAR  C.   RAINE 

who  knew  the  Lights  of  Dawson  when  they 
were  a  magnet  to  the  feet  of  those  answer 
ing  the  call  of  Adventure,  who  mushed  the 
Yukon  Trail  from  its  headwaters  to  Bering 
Sea,  who  still  finds  in  the  Frozen  North  the 
Romance  of  the  Last  Frontier. 


M15S 1 5 


Contents 


I.  GOING  "!N" 1 

II.  ENTEB  A  MAN 10 

III.  THE  GIRL  FROM  DROGHEDA 23 

IV.  THE  CREVASSE 31 

V.  ACROSS  THE  TRAVERSE 49 

VI.  SHEBA  SINGS  —  AND  Two  MEN  LISTEN 58 

VII.  WALLY  GETS  ORDERS 71 

VIII.  THE  END  OF  THE  PASSAGE 82 

IX.  GID  HOLT  GOES  PROSPECTING i>3 

X.  THE  RAH-RAH  BOY  FUNCTIONS 109 

XL  GORDON  INVITES   HIMSELF  TO  DINNER  —  AND  DOES  NOT 

ENJOY  IT 125 

XII.  SHEBA  SAYS  "PERHAPS" 137 

XIII.  DIANE  AND  GORDON  DIFFER 144 

XIV.  GENEVIEVE  MALLORY  TAKES  A  HAND 156 

XV.  GORDON  BUYS  A  REVOLVER 170 

XVI.  AMBUSHED 181 

XVII.  "GoD  SAVE  YOU  KINDLY" 193 

XVIII.  GORDON  SPENDS  A  BUSY  EVENING 201 

XIX.  SHEBA  DOES  NOT  THINK  so 210 

XX.  GORDON  FINDS  HIMSELF  UNPOPULAR 217 

vii 


Contents 


XXI.  A  NEW  WAT  OF  LEAVING  A  HOUSE 227 

XXII.  GID  HOLT  COMES  TO  KUSIAK 232 

XXIII.  IN  THE  DEAD  OF  NIGHT 241 

XXIV.  MACDONALD  FOLLOWS  A  CLUE 247 

XXV.  IN  THE  BLIZZARD 256 

XXVI.  HARD  MUSHING 268 

XXVII.  Two  ON  THE  TRAIL 275 

XXVIII.  A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD 286 

XXIX.  "DON'T  TOUCH  HIM!  DON'T  YOU  DARE  TOUCH  HIM!"       .  292 
XXX.  HOLT  FREES  HIS  MIND       .      .      .      .      ...      .301 

XXXI.  SHEBA  DIGS .      .308 

XXXII.  DIANE  CHANGES  HER  MIND  .  318 


Illustrations 

NOW  HE  CAUGHT  HER  BY  THE  SHOULDERS         ....   Frontispiece 
"So  YOU  THINK  I'M  A   ?FR  AID-CAT,   MR.   ELLIOT?"      ....      44 

THE    SITUATION    WAS    PIQUANT,     EVEN    THOUGH    IT    WAS    AT    HER 

MM 
EXPENSE   

FOR  HIM  THE  BEAUTY  OF  THE  NIGHT  LAY  LARGELY  IN  HER  PRESENCE   322 


The  Yukon  Trail 


CHAPTER  I 


GOING  "IN" 


THE  midnight  sun  had  set,  but  in  a  crotch 
between  two  snow-peaks  it  had  kindled  a  vast 
caldron  from  which  rose  a  mist  of  jewels,  gar 
net  and  turquoise,  topaz  and  amethyst  and  opal, 
all  swimming  in  a  sea  of  molten  gold.  The  glow 
of  it  still  clung  to  the  face  of  the  broad  Yukon, 
as  a  flush  does  to  the  soft,  wrinkled  cheek  of  a 
girl  just  roused  from  deep  sleep. 

Except  for  a  faint  murkiness  in  the  air  it  was 
still  day.  There  was  light  enough  for  the  four 
men  playing  pinochle  on  the  upper  deck,  though 
the  women  of  their  party,  gossiping  in  chairs 
grouped  near  at  hand,  had  at  last  put  aside 
their  embroidery.  The  girl  who  sat  by  her 
self  at  a  little  distance  held  a  magazine  still 
open  on  her  lap.  If  she  were  not  reading,  her 
attitude  suggested  it  was  less  because  of  the 
dusk  than  that  she  had  surrendered  herself  to 
the  spell  of  the  mysterious  beauty  which  for 
this  hour  at  least  had  transfigured  the  North  to 
a  land  all  light  and  atmosphere  and  color. 

1 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Gordon  Elliot  had  taken  the  boat  at  Pierre's 
Portage,  fifty  miles  farther  down  the  river.  He 
had  come  direct  from  the  creeks,  and  his  im 
pressions  of  the  motley  pioneer  life  at  the  gold- 
diggings  were  so  vivid  that  he  had  found  an  iso 
lated  corner  of  the  deck  where  he  could  scribble 
them  in  a  notebook  while  still  fresh. 

But  he  had  not  been  too  busy  to  see  that  the 
girl  in  the  wicker  chair  was  as  much  of  an 
outsider  as  he  was.  Plainly  this  was  her  first 
trip  in.  Gordon  was  a  stranger  in  the  Yukon 
country,  one  not  likely  to  be  over-welcome 
when  it  became  known  what  his  mission  was. 
It  may  have  been  because  he  was  out  of  the  pic 
ture  himself  that  he  resented  a  little  the  exclusion 
of  the  young  woman  with  the  magazine.  Cer 
tainly  she  herself  gave  no  evidence  of  feeling 
about  it.  Her  long-lashed  eyes  looked  dreamily 
across  the  river  to  the  glowing  hills  beyond. 
Not  once  did  they  turn  with  any  show  of  in 
terest  to  the  lively  party  under  the  awning. 

From  where  he  was  leaning  against  the  deck 
house  Elliot  could  see  only  a  fine,  chiseled  pro 
file  shading  into  a  mass  of  crisp,  black  hair,  but 
some  quality  in  the  detachment  of  her  person 
ality  stimulated  gently  his  imagination.  He 
wondered  who  she  could  be.  His  work  had  taken 
him  to  frontier  camps  before,  but  he  could  not 
place  her  as  a  type.  The  best  he  could  do 


The  Yukon  Trail 

was  to  guess  that  she  might  be  the  daughter  of 
some  territorial  official  on  her  way  in  to  join 
him. 

A  short,  thick-set  man  who  had  ridden  down 
on  the  stage  with  Elliot  to  Pierre's  Portage 
drifted  along  the  deck  toward  him.  He  wore  the 
careless  garb  of  a  mining  man  in  a  country  which 
looks  first  to  comfort. 

"Bound  for  Kusiak?"  he  asked,  by  way  of 
opening  conversation. 

"Yes,"  answered  Gordon. 

The  miner  nodded  toward  the  group  under 
the  awning.  "That  bunch  lives  at  Kusiak. 
They've  got  on  at  different  places  the  last  two 
or  three  days  —  except  Selfridge  and  his  wife, 
they've  been  out.  Guess  you  can  tell  that  from 
hearing  her  talk  —  the  little  woman  in  red  with 
the  snappy  black  eyes.  She's  spillin'  over  with 
talk  about  the  styles  in  New  York  and  the  cab 
arets  and  the  new  shows.  That  pot-bellied  little 
fellow  in  the  checked  suit  is  Selfridge.  He  is 
Colby  Macdonald's  man  Friday." 

Elliot  took  in  with  a  quickened  interest  the 
group  bound  for  Kusiak.  He  had  noticed  that 
they  monopolized  as  a  matter  of  course  the  best 
places  on  the  deck  and  in  the  dining-room.  They 
were  civil  enough  to  outsiders,  but  their  man 
ner  had  the  unconscious  selfishness  that  often 
regulates  social  activities.  It  excluded  from  their 

3 


The  Yukon  Trail 

gayety  everybody  that  did  not  belong  to  the 
proper  set. 

"That  sort  of  thing  gets  my  goat,"  the  miner 
went  on  sourly.  "Those  women  over  there  have 
elected  themselves  Society  with  a  capital  S. 
They  put  on  all  the  airs  the  Four  Hundred  do 
in  New  York.  And  who  the  hell  are  they  any 
how?  —  wives  to  a  bunch  of  grafting  politicians 
mostly." 

From  the  casual  talk  that  had  floated  to  him, 
with  its  many  little  allusions  punctuating  the 
jolly  give-and-take  of  their  repartee,  Elliot 
guessed  that  their  lives  had  the  same  back 
ground  of  tennis,  dinners,  hops,  official  gossip, 
and  business.  They  evidently  knew  one  another 
with  the  intimacy  that  comes  only  to  the  seg 
ment  of  a  small  community  shut  off  largely  from 
the  world  and  forced  into  close  social  relations. 
No  doubt  they  had  loaned  each  other  money 
occasionally,  stood  by  in  trouble,  and  gossiped 
back  and  forth  about  their  shortcomings  and 
family  skeletons  even  as  society  on  the  outside 
does. 

"That's  the  way  of  the  world,  is  n't  it?  Our 
civilization  is  built  on  the  group  system,"  sug 
gested  Elliot. 

"Maybeso,"  grumbled  the  miner.  "But  I 
hate  to  see  Alaska  come  to  it.  Me,  I  saw  this 
country  first  in  '97  —  packed  an  outfit  in  over 

4 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  Pass.  Every  man  stood  on  his  own  hind  legs 
then.  He  got  there  if  he  was  strong  —  mebbe; 
he  bogged  down  on  the  trail  good  and  plenty  if 
he  was  weak.  We  did  n't  have  any  of  the  artifi 
cial  stuff  then.  A  man  had  to  have  the  guts  to 
stand  the  gaff." 

"I  suppose  it  was  a  wild  country,  Mr.  Strong." 
The  little  miner's  eyes  gleamed.  "  Best  coun 
try  in  the  world.  We  did  n't  stand  for  anything 
that  was  n't  on  the  level.  It  was  a  poor  man's 
country  —  wages  fifteen  dollars  a  day  and 
plenty  of  work.  Everybody  had  a  chance.  Any 
body  could  stake  a  claim  and  gamble  on  his  luck. 
Now  the  big  corporations  have  slipped  in  and 
grabbed  the  best.  It  ain't  a  prospector's  propo 
sition  any  more.  Instead  of  faro  banks  we've 
got  savings  banks.  The  wide-open  dance  hall 
has  quit  business  in  favor  of  moving  pictures. 
And,  as  I  said  before,  we've  got  Society." 
"All  frontier  countries  have  to  come  to  it." 
"Hmp!  In  the  days  I'm  telling  you  about 
that  crowd  there  could  n't  'a'  hustled  meat  to 
fill  their  bellies  three  meals.  Parasites,  that's 
what  they  are.  They're  living  off  that  bunch 
of  roughnecks  down  there  and  folks  like  'em." 
With  a  wave  of  his  hand  Strong  pointed  to  a 
group  of  miners  who  had  boarded  the  boat  with 
them  at  Pierre's  Portage.  There  were  about  a 
dozen  of  the  men,  for  the  most  part  husky, 

5 


The  Yukon  Trail 

heavy-set  foreigners.  They  had  been  drinking, 
and  were  in  a  sullen  humor.  Elliot  gathered  from 
their  talk  that  they  had  lost  their  jobs  because 
they  had  tried  to  organize  an  incipient  strike  in 
the  Frozen  Gulch  district. 

"Roughnecks  and  booze-fighters  —  that's  all 
they  are.  But  they  earn  their  way.  Not  that 
I  blame  Macdonald  for  firing  them,  mind  you," 
continued  the  miner. 

"Were  they  working  for  Macdonald?" 

"Yep.  His  superintendent  up  there  was  too 
soft.  These  here  Swedes  got  gay.  Mac  hit  the 
trail  for  Frozen  Gulch.  He  hammered  his  big 
fist  into  the  bread-basket  of  the  ringleader  and 
said,  'Git!'  That  fellow's  running  yet,  I'll  bet. 
Then  Mac  called  the  men  together  and  read  the 
riot  act  to  them.  He  fired  this  bunch  on  the 
boat  and  was  out  of  the  camp  before  you  could 
bat  an  eye.  It  was  the  cleanest  hurry-up  job  I 
ever  did  see." 

"From  what  I've  heard  about  him  he  must 
be  a  remarkable  man." 

"He's  the  biggest  man  in  Alaska,  bar  none." 

This  was  a  subject  that  interested  Gordon 
Elliot  very  much.  Colby  Macdonald  and  his 
activities  had  brought  him  to  the  country. 

"Do  you  mean  personally  —  or  because  he 
represents  the  big  corporations?" 

"Both.  His  word  comes  pretty  near  being 

6 


The  Yukon  Trail 

law  up  here,  not  only  because  he  stands  for  the 
Consolidated,  but  because  he's  one  man  from 
the  ground  up.  I  ain't  any  too  strong  for  that 
New  York  bunch  of  capitalists  back  of  Mac, 
but  I  Ve  got  to  give  it  to  him  that  he 's  all  there 
without  leaning  on  anybody." 

"I've  heard  that  he's  a  domineering  man  — 
rides  roughshod  over  others.  Is  that  right,  Mr. 
Strong?" 

"  He 's  a  bear  for  getting  his  own  way,"  grinned 
the  little  miner.  "If  you  won't  get  out  of  his 
road  he  peels  your  hide  off  and  hangs  it  up  to 
dry.  But  I  can't  help  liking  him.  He's  big  every 
way  you  take  him.  He'll  stand  the  acid,  Mac 
will." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he's  square  —  honest?" 

"You've  said  two  things,  my  friend,"  an 
swered  Strong  dryly.  "He's  square.  If  he  tells 
you  anything,  don't  worry  because  he  ain't  put 
down  his  John  Hancock  before  a  notary.  He'll 
see  it  through  to  a  finish  —  to  a  fighting  finish 
if  he  has  to.  Don't  waste  any  time  looking  for 
fat  or  yellow  streaks  in  Mac.  They  ain't  there. 
Nobody  ever  heard  him  squeal  yet  and  what's 
more  nobody  ever  will." 

"No  wonder  men  like  him." 

"But  when  you  say  honest  —  Hell,  no!  Not 
the  way  you  define  honesty  down  in  the  States. 
He's  a  grabber,  Mac  is.  Better  not  leave  any- 

7 


The  Yukon  Trail 

thing  valuable  around  unless  you've  got  it 
spiked  to  the  floor.  He  takes  what  he  wants." 

"What  does  he  look  like?"  asked  Gordon. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Strong  hesitated,  while 
he  searched  for  words  to  show  the  picture  in  his 
mind.  "Big  as  a  house  —  steps  out  like  a  buck 
in  the  spring  —  blue-gray  eyes  that  bore  right 
through  you." 

"How  old?" 

"Search  me.  You  never  think  of  age  when 
you  're  looking  at  him.  Forty-five,  mebbe  —  or 
fifty  —  I  don't  know." 

"Married?" 

"No-o."  Hanford  Strong  nodded  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  Kusiak  circle.  "They  say  he's  going 
to  marry  Mrs.  Mallory.  She's  the  one  with  the 
red  hair." 

It  struck  young  Elliot  that  the  miner  was  dis 
missing  Mrs.  Mallory  in  too  cavalier  a  fashion. 
She  was  the  sort  of  woman  at  whom  men  look 
twice,  and  then  continue  to  look  while  she  ap 
pears  magnificently  unaware  of  it.  Her  hair  was 
not  red,  but  of  a  lustrous  bronze,  amazingly 
abundant,  and  dressed  in  waves  with  the  careful 
skill  of  a  coiffeur.  Half-shut,  smouldering  eyes 
had  met  his  for  an  instant  at  dinner  across  the 
table  and  had  told  him  she  was  a  woman  subtle 
and  complex.  Slightest  shades  of  meaning  she 
could  convey  with  a  lift  of  the  eyebrow  or  an  in- 

8 


The  Yukon  Trail 

tonation  of  the  musical  voice.  If  she  was  already 
fencing  with  the  encroaching  years  there  was 
little  evidence  of  it  in  her  opulent  good  looks. 
She  had  manifestly  specialized  in  graceful  idle 
ness  and  was  prepared  to  meet  with  superb 
confidence  the  competition  of  debutantes.  The 
elusive  shadow  of  lost  illusions,  of  knowledge 
born  of  experience,  was  the  only  betrayal  of 
vanished  youth  in  her  equipment. 


CHAPTER  II 

ENTER   A   MAN 

THE  whistle  of  the  Hannah  blew  for  the  Tat- 
lah  Cache  landing  while  Strong  and  Elliot  were 
talking.  Wally  Self  ridge  had  just  bid  three  hun 
dred  seventy  and  found  no  help  in  the  widow. 
He  pushed  toward  each  of  the  other  players  one 
red  chip  and  two  white  ones. 

"Can't  make  it,"  he  announced.  "I  needed  a 
jack  of  clubs." 

The  men  counted  their  chips  and  settled  up 
in  time  to  reach  the  deck  rail  just  as  the  gang 
plank  was  thrown  out  to  the  wharf.  The  crew 
transferred  to  the  landing  a  pouch  of  mail,  half 
a  ton  of  sacked  potatoes,  some  mining  machin 
ery,  and  several  boxes  containing  provisions  and 
dry  goods. 

A  man  came  to  the  end  of  the  wharf  carrying 
a  suitcase.  He  was  well-set,  thick  in  the  chest, 
and  broad-shouldered.  He  came  up  the  gang 
plank  with  the  strong,  firm  tread  of  a  man  in 
his  prime.  Looking  down  from  above,  Gordon 
Elliot  guessed  him  to  be  in  the  early  thirties. 

Mrs.  Mallory  was  the  first  to  recognize  him, 
which  she  did  with  a  drawling  little  shout  of 

10 


The  Yukon  Trail 

welcome.  "  Oh  you,  Mr.  Man.  I  knew  you  first. 
I  speak  for  you,"  she  cried. 

The  man  on  the  gangplank  looked  up,  smiled, 
and  lifted  to  her  his  broad  gray  Stetson  in  a 
wave  of  greeting. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Mallory?  Glad  to  see 
you." 

The  miners  from  Frozen  Gulch  were  grouped 
together  on  the  lower  deck.  At  sight  of  the  man 
with  the  suitcase  a  sullen  murmur  rose  among 
them.  Those  in  the  rear  pushed  forward  and 
closed  the  lane  leading  to  the  cabins.  One  of 
the  miners  was  flung  roughly  against  the  new 
passenger.  With  a  wide,  powerful  sweep  of  his 
arm  the  man  who  had  just  come  aboard  hurled 
the  miner  back  among  his  companions. 

"Gangway!"  he  said  brusquely,  and  as  he 
strode  forward  did  not  even  glance  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  angry  men  pressing  toward  him. 

"  Here.  Keep  back  there,  you  fellows.  None 
of  that  rough  stuff  goes,"  ordered  the  mate 
sharply. 

The  big  Cornishman  who  had  been  tossed 
aside  crouched  for  a  spring.  He  launched  him 
self  forward  with  the  awkward  force  of  a  bear. 
The  suitcase  described  a  whirling  arc  of  a  circle 
with  the  arm  of  its  owner  as  the  radius.  The 
bag  and  the  head  of  the  miner  came  into  swift 
impact.  Like  a  bullock  which  has  been  pote- 

11 


The  Yukon  Trail 

axed  the  man  went  to  the  floor.  He  turned  over 
with  a  groan  and  lay  still. 

The  new  passenger  looked  across  the  huge, 
sprawling  body  at  the  group  of  miners  facing 
him.  They  glared  in  savage  hate.  All  they 
needed  was  a  leader  to  send  them  driving  at  him 
with  the  force  of  an  avalanche.  The  man  at  whom 
they  raged  did  not  give  an  inch.  He  leaned 
forward  slightly,  his  weight  resting  on  the  balls 
of  his  feet,  alert  to  the  finger  tips.  But  in  his 
eyes  a  grim  little  smile  of  derisive  amusement 
rested. 

"Next,"  he  taunted. 

Then  the  mate  got  busy.  He  hustled  his  steve 
dores  forward  in  front  of  the  miners  and  shook 
his  fist  in  their  faces  as  he  stormed  up  and  down. 
If  they  wanted  trouble,  by  God!  it  was  wait 
ing  for  'em,  he  swore  in  apoplectic  fury.  The 
Hannah  was  a  river  boat  and  not  a  dive  for 
wharf  rats.  No  bunch  of  roughnecks  could  come 
aboard  a  boat  where  he  was  mate  and  start  any 
thing.  They  could  not  assault  any  passengers 
of  his  and  make  it  stick. 

The  man  with  the  suitcase  did  not  wait  to  hear 
out  his  tirade.  He  followed  the  purser  to  his 
stateroom,  dropped  his  baggage  beside  the  berth, 
and  joined  the  Kusiak  group  on  the  upper  deck. 

They  greeted  him  eagerly,  a  little  effusively, 
as  if  they  were  anxious  to  prove  themselves  on 

12 


The  Yukon  Trail 

good  terms  with  him.  The  deference  they  paid 
and  his  assured  acceptance  of  it  showed  him  to 
be  a  man  of  importance.  But  apart  from  other 
considerations,  he  dominated  by  mental  and 
physical  virility  the  circle  of  which  he  instantly 
became  the  center.  Only  Mrs.  Mallory  held  her 
own,  and  even  she  showed  a  quickened  interest. 
Her  indolent,  half-disdainful  manner  sheathed 
a  soft  sensuousness  that  held  the  provocation  of 
sex  appeal. 

"What  was  the  matter?"  asked  Self  ridge. 
"How  did  the  trouble  start?" 

The  big  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It 
did  n't  start.  Some  of  the  outfit  thought  they 
were  looking  for  a  row,  but  they  balked  on  the 
job  when  Trelawney  got  his."  Turning  to  Mrs. 
Mallory,  he  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  "Did 
you  have  a  good  time  down  the  river?" 

Gordon,  as  he  watched  from  a  little  distance, 
corrected  earlier  impressions.  This  man  had 
passed  the  thirties.  Salt  and  pepper  sprinkled 
the  temples  of  his  strong,  lean  head.  He  had 
the  thick  neck  and  solid  trunk  of  middle  life, 
but  he  carried  himself  so  superbly  that  his  whole 
bearing  denied  that  years  could  touch  his  splen 
did  physique.  The  suit  he  wore  was  a  wrin 
kled  corduroy,  with  trouser  legs  thrust  into 
high-laced  boots.  An  outdoor  tan  had  been 
painted  upon  his  face  and  neck,  from  the  point 

13 


The  Yukon  Trail 

where  the  soft  flannel  shirt  fell  away  to  show 
the  fine  slope  of  the  throat  line  to  the  shoulders. 

Strong  had  stepped  to  the  wharf  to  talk  with 
an  old  acquaintance,  but  when  the  boat  threw 
out  a  warning  signal  he  made  a  hurried  good 
bye  and  came  on  board.  He  rejoined  Elliot. 

"Well,  what  d'you  think  of  him?  Was  I 
right?" 

The  young  man  had  already  guessed  who  this 
imperious  stranger  was.  "I  never  saw  anybody 
get  away  with  a  hard  job  as  easily  as  he  did  that 
one.  You  could  see  with  half  an  eye  that  those 
fellows  meant  fight.  They  were  all  primed  for  it 
—  and  he  bluffed  them  out." 

"Bluffed  them  — huh!  If  that's  what  you 
call  bluffing.  I  was  where  I  could  see  just  what 
happened.  Colby  Macdonald  was  n't  even  look 
ing  at  Trelawney,  but  you  bet  he  saw  him  start. 
That  suitcase  traveled  like  a  streak  of  light. 
You'd. 'a'  thought  it  weighed  about  two  pounds. 
That  ain't  all  either.  Mac  used  his  brains.  Guess 
what  was  in  that  grip." 

"The  usual  thing,  I  suppose." 

"You've  got  another  guess  —  packed  in 
among  his  socks  and  underwear  was  about 
twenty  pounds  of  ore  samples.  The  purser  told 
me.  It  was  that  quartz  put  Trelawney  to  sleep  so 
thorough  that  he'd  just  begun  to  wake  up  when 
I  passed  a  minute  ago." 

14 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  young  man  turned  his  eyes  again  upon 
the  big  Canadian  Scotchman.  He  was  talking 
with  Mrs.  Mallory,  who  was  leaning  back  luxuri 
ously  in  a  steamer  chair  she  had  brought  aboard 
at  St.  Michael's.  It  would  have  been  hard  to 
conceive  a  contrast  greater  than  the  one  be 
tween  this  pampered  heiress  of  the  ages  and  the 
modern  business  berserk  who  looked  down  into 
her  mocking  eyes.  He  was  the  embodiment  of 
the  dominant  male,  —  efficient  to  the  last  inch 
of  his  straight  six  feet.  What  he  wanted  he  had 
always  taken,  by  the  sheer  strength  that  was  in 
him.  Back  of  her  smiling  insolence  lay  a  silken 
force  to  match  his  own.  She  too  had  taken  what 
she  wanted  from  life,  but  she  had  won  it  by 
indirection.  Manifestly  she  was  of  those  women 
who  conceive  that  charm  and  beauty  are  tools  to 
bend  men  to  their  wills.  Was  it  the  very  width 
of  the  gulf  between  them  that  made  the  appeal 
of  the  clash  in  the  sex  duel  upon  which  they  had 
engaged? 

The  dusky  young  woman  with  the  magazine 
was  the  first  of  those  on  the  upper  deck  to  retire 
for  the  night.  She  flitted  so  quietly  that  Gordon 
did  not  notice  until  she  had  gone.  Mrs.  Selfridge 
and  her  friends  disappeared  with  their  men  folks, 
calling  gay  good-nights  to  one  another  as  they  left. 

Macdonald  and  Mrs.  Mallory  still  talked. 
After  a  time  she  too  vanished. 

15 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  big  promoter  leaned  against  the  deck  rail, 
where  he  was  joined  by  Self  ridge.  For  a  long 
time  they  talked  in  low  voices.  The  little  man 
had  most  to  say.  His  chief  listened,  but  occa 
sionally  interrupted  to  ask  a  sharp,  incisive 
question. 

Elliot,  sitting  farther  forward  with  Strong, 
judged  that  Self  ridge  was  making  a  report  of 
his  trip.  Once  he  caught  a  fragment  of  their 
talk,  enough  to  confirm  this  impression. 

"Did  Winton  tell  you  that  himself?"  de 
manded  the  Scotchman. 

The  answer  of  his  employee  came  in  a  mur 
mur  so  low  that  the  words  were  lost.  But  the 
name  used  told  Gordon  a  good  deal.  The  Com 
missioner  of  the  General  Land  Office  at  Wash 
ington  signed  his  letters  Harold  B.  Winton. 

Strong  tossed  the  stub  of  his  cigarette  over 
board  and  nodded  good-night.  A  glance  at  his 
watch  told  Elliot  that  it  was  past  two  o'clock. 
He  rose,  stretched,  and  sauntered  back  to  his 
stateroom. 

The  young  man  had  just  taken  off  his  coat 
when  there  came  the  hurried  rush  of  trampling 
feet  upon  the  hurricane  deck  above.  Almost 
instantly  he  heard  a  cry  of  alarm.  Low  voices, 
quick  with  suppressed  excitement,  drifted  back 
to  him.  He  could  hear  the  shuffling  of  footsteps 
and  the  sound  of  heavy  bodies  moving. 

16 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Some  one  lifted  a  frightened  shout.  "Help! 
Help!"  The  call  had  come,  he  thought,  from 
Selfridge. 

Gordon  flung  open  the  door  of  his  room,  raced 
along  the  deck,  and  took  the  stairs  three  at  a 
time.  A  huddle  of  men  swayed  and  shifted 
heavily  in  front  of  him.  So  close  was  the  pack 
that  the  motion  resembled  the  writhing  of 
some  prehistoric  monster  rather  than  the 
movements  of  individual  human  beings.  In 
that  half-light  tossing  arms  and  legs  looked  like 
tentacles  flung  out  in  agony  by  the  mammoth 
reptile.  Its  progress  was  jerky  and  convulsive, 
sometimes  tortuous,  but  it  traveled  slowly  to 
ward  the  rail  as  if  by  the  impulsion  of  an  irre 
sistible  pressure. 

Even  as  he  ran  toward  the  mass,  Elliot  no 
ticed  that  the  only  sounds  were  grunts,  stertor 
ous  breathings,  and  the  scraping  of  feet.  The 
attackers  wanted  no  publicity.  The  attacked 
was  too  busy  to  waste  breath  in  futile  cries.  He 
was  fighting  for  his  life  with  all  the  stark  energy 
nature  and  his  ancestors  had  given  him. 

Two  men,  separated  from  the  crowd,  lay  on 
the  deck  farther  aft.  One  was  on  top  of  the  other, 
his  fingers  clutching  the  gullet  of  his  helpless 
opponent.  The  agony  of  the  man  underneath 
found  expression  only  in  the  drumming  heels 
that  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  floor*  The  spasmodic 

17 


The  Yukon  Trail 

feet  were  shod  in  Oxford  tans  of  an  ultra-fash 
ionable  cut.  No  doubt  the  owner  of  the  smart 
footwear  had  been  pulled  down  as  he  was  escap 
ing  to  shout  the  alarm. 

The  runner  hurdled  the  two  in  his  stride  and 

plunged  straight  at  the  struggling  tangle.     He 

caught  one  man  by  the  shoulders  from  behind 

and  flung  him  back.    He  struck  hard,  smashing 

blows  as  he  fought  his  way  to  the  heart  of  the 

jt.      melee.  Heavy-fisted  miners  with  corded  muscles 

landed  upon  his  face  and  head  and  neck.    The 

strange   excitement   of   the   battle   lust   surged 

through  his  veins.    He  did  not  care  a  straw  for 

v     the  odds. 

^* 

The  sudden  attack  of  Elliot  had  opened  the 
pack.  The  man  battling  against  a  dozen  was 
Colby  Macdonald.  The  very  number  of  his  foes 
had  saved  him  so  far  from  being  rushed  over 
board  or  trampled  down.  In  their  desire  to  get 
at  him  they  hindered  each  other,  struck  blows 
that  found  the  wrong  mark.  His  coat  and  shirt 
were  in  rags.  He  was  bruised  and  battered  and 
bleeding  from  the  chest  up.  But  he  was  still 
slogging  hard. 

They  had  him  pressed  to  the  rail.  A  huge 
miner,  head  down,  had  his  arms  around  the 
waist  of  the  Scotchman  and  was  trying  to  throw 
him  overboard.  Macdonald  lashed  out  and 
landed  flush  upon  the  cheek  of  a  man  attempting 

18 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  brain  him  with  a  billet  of  wood.  He  ham 
mered  home  a  short-arm  jolt  against  the  ear 
of  the  giant  who  was  giving  him  the  bear  grip. 

The  big  miner  grunted,  but  hung  on  like  a 
football  tackier.  With  a  jerk  he  raised  Mac- 
donald  from  the  floor  just  as  three  or  four 
others  rushed  him  again.  The  rail  gave  way, 
splintered  like  kindling  wood.  The  Scotchman 
and  the  man  at  grips  with  him  went  over  the 
side  together. 

Clear  and  loud  rang  the  voice  of  Elliot.  "  Man 
overboard!" 

The  wheelsman  had  known  for  some  minutes 
that  there  was  trouble  afoot.  He  signaled  to 
the  engine  room  to  reverse  and  blew  short,  sharp 
shrieks  of  warning.  Already  deckhands  and 
officers,  scantily  clad,  were  appearing  from  fore 
and  aft. 

"Men  overboard  —  two  of  'em!"  explained 
Elliot  in  a  shout  from  the  boat  which  he  was  try 
ing  to  lower. 

The  first  mate  and  another  man  ran  to  help 
him.  The  three  of  them  lowered  and  manned 
the  boat.  Gordon  sat  in  the  bow  and  gave  direc 
tions  while  the  other  two  put  their  backs  into 
the  stroke.  Quite  casually  Elliot  noticed  that 
the  man  in  the  waist  had  a  purple  bruise  on  his 
left  cheek  bone.  The  young  man  himself  had 
put  it  there  not  three  minutes  since. 

19 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Across  the  water  came  a  call  for  help.  "I'm 
sinking  —  hurry!" 

The  other  man  in  the  river  was  a  dozen  yards 
from  the  one  in  distress.  With  strong,  swift, 
overhand  strokes  he  shot  through  the  water. 

"All  right,"  he  called  presently.  "I've  got 
him." 

The  oarsmen  drew  alongside  the  swimmer. 
With  one  hand  Macdonald  caught  hold  of  the 
edge  of  the  boat.  The  other  clutched  the  res 
cued  man  by  the  hair  of  his  head. 

"Look  out.  You're  drowning  him,"  the  mate 
warned. 

"Am  I?"  Macdonald  glanced  with  mild  in 
terest  at  the  head  that  had  been  until  that  mo 
ment  submerged.  "Shows  how  absent-minded 
a  man  gets.  I  was  thinking  about  how  he  tried 
to  drown  me,  I  expect." 

They  dragged  the  miner  aboard. 

"Go  ahead.  I'll  swim  down,"  Macdonald 
ordered. 

"Better  come  aboard,"  advised  the  mate. 

"No.  I 'mall  right." 

The  Scotchman  pushed  himself  back  from 
the  boat  and  fell  into  an  easy  stroke.  Never 
theless,  there  was  power  in  it,  for  he  reached 
the  Hannah  before  the  rescued  miner  had  been 
helped  to  the  deck. 

A  dozen  passengers,  crowded  on  the  lower 

20 


The  Yukon  Trail 

deck,  pushed  forward  eagerly  to  see.  Among 
them  was  Selfridge,  his  shirt  and  collar  torn 
loose  at  the  neck  and  his  immaculate  checked 
suit  dusty  and  disheveled.  He  was  wearing  a 
pair  of  up-to-date  Oxford  tans. 

The  Scotch-Canadian  shook  himself  like  a 
Newfoundland  dog.  He  looked  around  with  sar 
donic  amusement,  a  grin  on  his  swollen  and 
disfigured  face. 

"Quite  a  pleasant  welcome  home,"  he  said 
ironically,  his  cold  eyes  fixed  on  a  face  that 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  kicked  by  a 
healthy  mule.  "Eh,  Trelawney?" 

The  Cornishman  glared  at  him,  and  turned 
away  with  a  low,  savage  oath. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Mr.  Macdonald?"  asked  the 
captain. 

"Hurt!  Not  at  all,  Captain.  I  cut  myself 
while  I  was  shaving  this  morning  —  just  a 
scratch,"  was  the  ironic  answer. 

"There's  been  some  dirty  work  going  on. 
I'll  see  the  men  are  punished,  sir." 

"Forget  it,  Captain.  I'll  attend  to  that  little 
matter."  His  jaunty,  almost  insolent  glance 
made  the  half -circle  again.  "Sorry  you  were  too 
late  for  the  party,  gentlemen,  —  most  of  you. 
I  see  three  or  four  of  you  who  were  *  among  those 
present.'  It  was  a  strictly  exclusive  affair.  And 
now,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  say  good-night." 

21 


The  Yukon  Trail 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  went  up  the  stairway 
to  the  deck  above,  and  disappeared  into  his 
stateroom. 

The  rescued  miner,  propped  against  the  cabin 
wall  where  he  had  been  placed,  broke  into  sud 
den  excited  protest.  "Ach!  He  tried  to  drown 
me.  Mein  head  —  he  hold  it  under  the  water." 

"Ain't  that  just  like  a  Swede?"  retorted  the 
mate  in  disgust.  "Mac  saves  his  life.  Then  the 
roughneck  kicks  because  he  got  a  belly  full 
of  Yukon.  Sure  Mac  soused  him  some.  Why 
should  n't  he?" 

"I  ain't  no  Swede,"  explained  the  big  miner 
sullenly. 

The  mate  did  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  ex 
plain  that  "Swede"  was  merely  his  generic  term 
of  contempt  for  all  foreigners. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   GIRL   FROM   DROGHEDA 

GORDON  ELLIOT  was  too  much  of  a  night 
owl  to  be  an  early  riser,  but  next  morning  he 
was  awakened  by  the  tramp  of  hurried  feet  along 
the  deck  to  the  accompaniment  of  brusque  or 
ders,  together  with  frequent  angry  puffing  and 
snorting  of  the  boat.  From  the  quiver  of  the 
walls  he  guessed  that  the  Hannah  was  stuck  on 
a  sandbar.  The  mate's  language  gave  back 
ing  to  this  surmise.  Divided  in  mind  between 
his  obligation  to  the  sleeping  passengers  and  his 
duty  to  get  the  boat  on  her  way,  that  officer 
spilled  a  good  deal  of  subdued  sulphurous  lan 
guage  upon  the  situation. 

"All  together  now.  Get  your  back  into  it. 
Why  are  you  running  around  like  a  chicken 
without  a  head,  Reeves?"  he  snapped. 

Evidently  the  deck  hands  were  working  to  get 
the  Hannah  off  by  poling. 

Elliot  tried  to  settle  back  to  sleep,  but  after 
two  or  three  ineffectual  efforts  gave  it  up.  He 
rose  and  did  one  or  two  setting-up  exercises  to 
limber  his  joints.  The  first  of  these  flashed-  the 
signal  to  his  brain  that  he  was  stiff  and  sore. 

23 


The  Yukon  Trail 

This  brought  to  mind  the  fight  on  the  hurricane 
deck,  and  he  smiled.  His  face  was  about  as 
mobile  as  if  it  were  in  a  plaster  cast.  It  hurt 
every  time  he  twitched  a  muscle. 

The  young  man  stepped  to  the  looking-glass. 
Both  eyes  were  blacked,  his  lip  had  been  cut, 
and  there  was  a  purple  weal  well  up  on  his 
left  cheek.  He  stopped  himself  from  grinning 
only  just  in  time  to  save  another  twinge  of  pain. 

"Some  party  while  it  lasted.  I  never  saw 
more  willing  mixers.  Everybody  seemed  anx 
ious  to  sit  in  except  Mr.  Wally  Self  ridge,"  he 
explained  to  his  reflection.  "But  Macdonald 
is  the  class.  He's  there  with  both  right  and  left. 
That  uppercut  of  his  is  vicious.  Don't  ever  get 
in  the  way  of  it,  Gordon  Elliot."  He  examined 
his  injuries  more  closely  in  the  glass.  "Some 
one  landed  a  peach  on  my  right  lamp  and  the 
other  is  in  mourning  out  of  sympathy.  Oh,  well, 
I  ain't  the  only  prize  beauty  on  board  this  morn 
ing."  The  young  man  forgot  and  smiled.  "  Ouch ! 
Don't  do  that,  Gordon.  Yes,  son.  ( There's 
many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so 
bright  as  mine.'  Now  is  n't  that  the  truth?" 

He  bathed,  dressed,  and  went  out  on  the  deck. 

Early  though  he  was,  one  passenger  at  least 
was  up  before  him.  The  young  woman  he  had 
noticed  last  evening  with  the  magazine  was 
doing  a  constitutional.  A  slight  breeze  was 

24 


The  Yukon  Trail 

stirring,  and  as  she  moved  against  it  the  white 
skirt  clung  first  to  one  knee  and  then  the  other, 
moulding  itself  to  the  long  lines  of  her  limbs 
with  exquisite  grace  of  motion.  It  was  as  though 
her  walk  were  the  expression  of  a  gallant  and 
buoyant  personality. 

Irish  he  guessed  her  when  the  deep-blue  eyes 
rested  on  his  for  an  instant  as  she  passed,  and 
fortified  his  conjecture  by  the  coloring  of  the 
clear-skinned  face  and  the  marks  of  the  Celtic 
race  delicately  stamped  upon  it. 

The  purser  came  out  of  his  room  and  joined 
Elliot.  He  smiled  at  sight  of  the  young  man's 
face. 

"Your  map's  a  little  out  of  plumb  this  morn 
ing,  sir,"  he  ventured. 

"But  you  ought  to  see  the  other  fellow,"  came 
back  Gordon  boyishly. 

"I've  seen  him  —  several  of  him.  We've  got 
the  best  collection  of  bruises  on  board  I  ever 
clapped  eyes  on.  I've  got  to  give  it  to  you  and 
Mr.  Macdonald.  You  know  how  to  hit." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  his  class." 

Gordon  Elliot  meant  what  he  said.  He  was 
himself  an  athlete,  had  played  for  three  years 
left  tackle  on  his  college  eleven.  More  than 
one  critic  had  picked  him  for  the  All-America 
team.  He  could  do  his  hundred  in  just  a  little 
worse  than  ten  seconds.  But  after  all  he  was  a 

25 


The  Yukon  Trail 

product  of  training  and  of  the  gymnasiums. 
Macdonald  was  what  nature  and  a  long  line 
of  fighting  Highland  ancestors  had  made  him. 
His  sinewy,  knotted  strength,  his  massive  build, 
the  breadth  of  shoulder  and  depth  of  chest  — 
mushing  on  long  snow  trails  was  the  gymnasium 
that  had  contributed  to  these. 

The  purser  chuckled.  "He's  a  good  un,  Mac 
is.  They  say  he  liked  to  have  drowned  North- 
rup  after  he  had  saved  him." 

Elliot  was  again  following  with  his  eyes  the 
lilt  of  the  girl's  movements.  Apparently  he  had 
not  heard  what  the  officer  said.  At  least  he  gave 
no  answer. 

With  a  grin  the  purser  opened  another  attack. 
" Don't  blame  you  a  bit,  Mr.  Elliot.  She's  the 
prettiest  colleen  that  ever  sailed  from  Dublin 
Bay." 

The  young  man  brought  his  eyes  home.  They 
answered  engagingly  the  smile  of  the  purser. 

"Who  is  she?" 

"The  name  on  the  books  is  Sheba  O'Neill," 

"From  Dublin,  you  say." 

"Oh,  if  you  want  to  be  literal,  her  baggage 
says  Drogheda.  Ireland  is  Ireland  to  me." 

"\Vhere  is  she  bound  for?" 

"Kusiak." 

The  young  woman  passed  them  with  a  little 
nod  of  morning  greeting  to  the  purser.  Fine  and 


The  Yukon  Trail 

dainty  though  she  was,  Miss  O'Neill  gave  an 
impression  of  radiant  strength. 

"Been  with  you  all  the  way  up  the  river?" 
asked  Elliot  after  she  had  passed. 

"Yep.  She  came  up  on  the  Skagit  from 
Seattle." 

"What  is  she  going  to  do  at  Kusiak?" 

Again  the  purser  grinned.  "What  do  they  all 
do  —  the  good-looking  ones?" 

"Get  married,  you  mean?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Girls  coming  up 
ask  me  what  to  bring  by  way  of  outfit.  I  used 
to  make  out  a  long  list.  Now  I  tell  them  to  bring 
clothes  enough  for  six  weeks  and  their  favorite 
wedding  march." 

"Is  this  girl  engaged?" 

"Can't  prove  it  by  me,"  said  the  officer 
lightly.  "But  she'll  never  get  out  of  Alaska  a 
spinster  —  not  that  girl.  She  may  be  going  in 
to  teach,  or  to  run  a  millinery  store,  or  to  keep 
books  for  a  trading  company.  She'll  stay  to 
bring  up  kiddies  of  her  own.  They  all  do." 

Three  children  came  up  the  stairway,  caught 
sight  of  Miss  O'Neill,  and  raced  pell-mell  across 
the  deck  to  her. 

The  young  woman's  face  was  transformed. 
It  was  bubbling  with  tenderness,  with  gay  and 
happy  laughter.  Flinging  her  arms  wide,  she 
waited  for  them.  With  incoherent  cries  of  de- 

27 


The  Yukon  Trail 

light  they  flung  themselves  upon  her.  Her  arms 
enveloped  all  three  as  she  stooped  for  their  hugs 
and  kisses. 

The  two  oldest  were  girls.  The  youngest  was 
a  fat,  cuddly  little  boy  with  dimples  in  his  soft 
cheeks. 

"I  dwessed  myself,  Aunt  Sheba.  Didn't  I, 
Gwen?" 

"Not  all  by  yourself,  Billie?"  inquired  the 
Irish  girl,  registering  a  proper  amazement. 

He  nodded  his  head  slowly  and  solemnly  up 
and  down.  "Honeth  to  goodness." 

Sheba  stooped  and  held  him  off  to  admire. 
"All  by  yourself  —  just  think  of  that." 

"We  helped  just  the  teeniest  bit  on  the  but 
tons,"  confessed  Janet,  the  oldest  of  the  small 
family. 

"And  I  tied  his  shoes,"  added  Gwendolen, 
"after  he  had  laced  them." 

"Billie  will  be  such  a  big  man  Daddie  won't 
know  him."  And  Sheba  gave  him  another  hug. 

Gwendolen  snuggled  close  to  Miss  O'Neill. 
"You  always  smell  so  sweet  and  clean  and  vio- 
lety,  Aunt  Sheba,"  she  whispered  in  confidence. 

"You're  spoiling  me,  Gwen,"  laughed  the 
young  woman.  "You've  kissed  the  blarney 
stone.  It's  a  good  thing  you're  leaving  the  boat 
to-day." 

Miss  Gwen  had  one  more  confidence  to  make 

28 


The  Yukon  Trail 

in  the  ear  of  her  friend.   "I  wish  you'd  come  too 
and  be  our  new  mamma,"  she  begged. 

A  shell-pink  tinge  crept  into  the  milky  skin 
of  the  Irish  girl.  She  was  less  sure  of  herself, 
more  easily  embarrassed,  than  the  average 
American  of  her  age  and  sex.  Occasionally  in 
her  manner  was  that  effect  of  shyness  one  finds 
in  the  British  even  after  they  have  escaped  from 
provincialism. 

"Are  all  your  things  gathered  ready  for  pack 
ing,  Janet?"  she  asked  quietly. 

The  purser  gave  information  to  Elliot.  "They 
call  her  Aunt  Sheba,  but  she's  no  relative  of 
theirs.  The  kids  are  on  their  way  in  to  their 
father,  who  is  an  engineer  on  one  of  the  creeks 
back  of  Katma.  Their  mother  died  two  months 
ago.  Miss  O'Neill  met  them  first  aboard  the 
Skagit  on  the  way  up  and  she  has  mothered  them 
ever  since.  Some  women  are  that  way,  bless 
'em.  I  know  because  I've  been  married  to  one 
myself  six  months.  She's  back  there  at  St. 
Michael's,  and  she  just  grabs  at  every  baby  in 
the  block." 

The  eyes  of  Elliot  rested  on  Miss  O'Neill. 
"She  loves  children." 

"She  sure  does  —  no  bluff  about  that."  An 
imp  of  mischief  sparkled  in  the  eye  of  the  super 
cargo.  "Not  married  yourself,  are  you,  Mr. 
Elliot?" 

29 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"No." 

"Hmp!" 

That  was  all  he  said,  but  Gordon  felt  the 
blood  creep  into  his  face.  This  annoyed  him,  so 
he  added  brusquely,  — 

"And  not  likely  to  be." 

When  the  call  for  breakfast  came  Miss  O'Neill 
took  her  retinue  of  youngsters  with  her  to  the 
dining-room.  Looking  across  from  his  seat  at 
an  adjoining  table,  Elliot  could  see  her  waiting 
upon  them  with  a  fine  absorption  in  their  needs. 
She  prepared  an  orange  for  Billie  and  offered 
to  the  little  girls  suggestions  as  to  ordering  that 
were  accepted  by  them  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Unconsciously  the  children  recognized  in  her 
the  eternal  Mother. 

Before  they  had  been  long  in  the  dining-room 
Macdonald  came  in  carrying  a  sheaf  of  business 
papers.  He  glanced  around,  recognized  Elliot, 
and  made  instantly  for  the  seat  across  the  table 
from  him.  On  his  face  and  head  were  many 
marks  of  the  recent  battle. 

"Trade  you  a  cauliflower  ear  for  a  pair  of 
black  eyes,  Mr.  Elliot,"  he  laughed  as  he  shook 
hands  with  the  man  whose  name  he  had  just 
learned  from  the  purser. 

The  grip  of  his  brown,  muscular  hand  was 
strong.  It  was  in  character  with  the  steady,  cool 
eyes  set  deep  beneath  the  jutting  forehead,  with 

30 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  confident  carriage  of  the  deep,  broad  shoul 
ders.  He  looked  a  dynamic  American,  who  trod 
the  way  of  the  forceful  and  fought  for  his  share 
of  the  spoils. 

"You  might  throw  in  several  other  little  sou 
venirs  to  boot  and  not  miss  them,"  suggested 
Elliot  with  a  smile. 

Macdonald  nodded  indifferently.  "I  gave 
and  I  took,  which  was  as  it  should  be.  But  it's 
different  with  you,  Mr.  Elliot.  This  was  n't 
your  row." 

"I  had  n't  been  in  a  good  mix-up  since  I  left 
college.  It  did  me  a  lot  of  good." 

"Much  obliged,  anyhow."  He  turned  his  at 
tention  to  a  lady  entering  the  dining-room. 
"  'Mornin',  Mrs.  Selfridge.  How's  Wally?" 

She  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair.  "He's  on 
his  second  bottle  of  liniment  already.  I  expect 
those  ruffians  have  ruined  his  singing  voice.  It's 
a  mercy  they  did  n't  murder  both  him  and  you, 
Mr.  Macdonald.  When  I  think  of  how  close  you 
both  came  to  death  last  night  — " 

"I  don't  know  about  Wally,  but  I  had  no 
notion  of  dying,  Mrs.  Selfridge.  They  mussed 
us  up  a  bit.  That  was  all." 

"But  they  meant  to  kill  you,  the  cowards. 
And  they  almost  did  it  too.  Look  at  Wally  — 
confined  to  his  bed  and  speaking  in  a  whisper. 
Look  at  you  —  a  wreck,  horribly  beaten  up9 

31 


The  Yukon  Trail 

almost  drowned.  We  must  drive  the  villains 
out  of  the  country  or  send  them  to  prison." 

Mrs.  Selfridge  always  talked  in  superlatives. 
She  had  an  enthusiasm  for  the  dramatics  of 
conversation.  Her  supple  hands,  her  shrill, 
eager  voice,  the  snapping  black  eyes,  all  had  the 
effect  of  startling  headlines  to  the  story  she 
might  be  telling. 

"Am  I  a  wreck?"  the  big  Scotchman  wanted 
to  know.  "I  feel  as  husky  as  a  well-fed  mala- 
mute." 

"Oh,  you  talk.  But  we  all  know  you  — how 
brave  and  strong  you  are.  That's  why  this  out 
rage  ought  to  be  punished.  What  would  Alaska 
do  if  anything  happened  to  you?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  admitted  Mac- 
donald.  "The  North  would  have  to  go  out  of 
business,  I  suppose.  But  you  're  right  about  one 
thing,  Mrs.  Selfridge.  I'm  brave  and  strong 
enough  at  the  breakfast  table.  Steward,  will 
you  bring  me  a  double  order  of  these  shirred 
eggs  —  and  a  small  steak?" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  can  still  joke,  Mr.  Mac- 
donald,  after  such  a  terrible  experience.  All  I 
can  say  is  that  I  hope  Wally  is  n't  permanently 
injured.  He  has  n't  your  fine  constitution,  and 
one  never  can  tell  about  internal  injuries."  Mrs. 
Selfridge  sighed  and  passed  to  her  place. 

The  eyes  of  the  big  man  twinkled.  "Our  little 

32 


The  Yukon  Trail 

fracas  has  been  a  godsend  to  Mrs.  Selfridge. 
Wally  and  I  will  both  emerge  as  heroes  of  a  des 
perate  struggle.  You  won't  even  get  a  men 
tion.  But  it's  a  pity  about  Wally 's  injuries  — 
and  his  singing  voice." 

The  younger  man  agreed  with  a  gravity  back 
of  which  his  amusement  was  apparent.  The  share 
of  Selfridge  in  the  battle  had  been  limited  to  leg 
work  only,  but  this  had  not  been  good  enough 
to  keep  him  from  being  overhauled  and  having 
his  throat  squeezed. 

Elliot  finished  breakfast  first  and  left  Mac- 
donald  looking  over  a  long  typewritten  docu 
ment.  He  had  it  propped  against  a  water-bottle 
and  was  reading  as  he  ate.  The  paper  was  a  re 
port  Selfridge  had  brought  in  to  him  from  a 
clerk  in  the  General  Land  Office.  The  big  Can 
adian  and  the  men  he  represented  were  dealing 
directly  with  the  heads  of  the  Government  de 
partments,  but  they  thought  it  the  part  of  wis 
dom  to  keep  in  their  employ  subordinates  in 
the  capacity  of  secret  service  agents  to  spy  upon 
the  higher-ups. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   CREVASSE 

FOR  an  hour  before  the  Hannah  reached 
Katma  Miss  O'Neill  was  busy  getting  her  little 
brood  ready.  In  that  last  half-day  she  was  a 
creature  of  moods  to  them.  They,  too,  like 
Sheba  herself,  were  adventuring  into  a  new 
world.  Somehow  they  represented  to  her  the 
last  tie  that  bound  her  to  the  life  she  was  leav 
ing.  Her  heart  was  tender  as  a  Madonna  to 
these  lambs  so  ill-fitted  to  face  a  frigid  waste. 
Their  mother  had  been  a  good  woman.  She 
could  tell  that.  But  she  had  no  way  of  knowing 
what  kind  of  man  their  father  might  be. 

Sheba  gave  Janet  advice  about  where  to  keep 
her  money  and  when  to  wear  rubbers  and  what 
to  do  for  Billie's  cold.  She  put  up  a  lunch  for 
them  to  take  on  the  stage.  When  they  said  their 
sniffling  good-byes  at  Katma  she  was  suspi 
ciously  bright  and  merry.  Soon  the  children 
were  laughing  again  with  her. 

One  glance  at  their  father,  who  introduced 
himself  to  Miss  O'Neill  as  John  Husted,  re 
lieved  her  mind  greatly.  His  spontaneous  de 
light  at  seeing  them  again  and  his  choking  grati- 

34 


The  Yukon  Trail 

tude  to  her  for  having  looked  after  them  were 
evidence  enough  that  this  kind-eyed  man  meant 
to  be  both  father  and  mother  to  his  recovered 
little  folks.  His  emotion  was  too  poignant  for 
him  to  talk  about  his  wife,  but  Sheba  under 
stood  and  liked  him  better  for  it. 

Her  temporary  family  stood  on  the  end  of 
the  wharf  and  called  good-byes  to  the  girl. 

"Turn  soon  and  see  us,  Aunt  Sheba,"  Billie 
shouted  from  his  seat  on  the  shoulder  of  his 
father. 

The  children  waved  handkerchiefs  as  long  as 
she  could  be  distinguished  by  them.  When  they 
turned  away  she  went  directly  to  her  room. 

Elliot  was  passing  forward  when  Miss  O'Neill 
opened  her  stateroom  door  to  go  in.  The  eyes 
of  the  young  woman  were  blind  with  tears  and  she 
was  biting  her  lip  to  keep  back  the  emotion  that 
welled  up.  He  knew  she  was  very  fond  of  the 
motherless  children,  but  he  guessed  at  an  addi 
tional  reason  for  her  sobs.  She  too  was  as  un 
taught  as  a  child  in  the  life  of  this  frontier  land. 
Whatever  she  found  here  —  how  much  of  hard 
ship  or  happiness,  of  grief  or  woe  —  she  knew 
that  she  had  left  behind  forever  the  safe  har 
borage  of  quiet  waters  in  which  her  life  craft 
had  always  floated. 

It  came  on  to  rain  in  the  afternoon.  Heavy 
clouds  swept  across  from  the  mountains,  and 

35 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  sodden  sky  opened  like  a  sluice-box.  The 
Kusiak  contingent,  driven  indoors,  resorted  to 
bridge.  Miss  O'Neill  read.  Gordon  Elliot  wrote 
letters,  dawdled  over  magazines,  and  lounged 
alternately  in  the  ladies'  parlor  and  the  smok 
ing-room,  where  Macdonald,  Strong,  a  hard 
ware  merchant  from  Fairbanks,  and  a  pair  of 
sour-dough  miners  had  settled  themselves  to  a 
poker  game  that  was  to  last  all  night  and  well 
into  the  next  day. 

Of  the  two  bridge  tables  all  the  players  were 
old-timers  except  Mrs.  Mallory.  Most  of  them 
were  young  enough  in  years,  but  they  had  been 
of  the  North  long  enough  to  know  the  gossip 
of  the  country  and  its  small  politics  intimately. 
They  shared  common  hopes  of  the  day  when 
Alaska  would  be  thrown  open  to  industry  and 
a  large  population. 

But  Mrs.  Mallory  had  come  in  over  the  ice 
for  the  first  time  last  winter.  The  other  women 
felt  that  she  was  a  bird  of  passage,  that  the 
frozen  Arctic  could  be  no  more  than  a  whim  to 
her.  They  deferred  a  little  to  her  because  she 
knew  the  great  world  —  New  York,  Vienna, 
London,  Paris.  Great  names  fell  from  her  lips 
casually  and  carelessly.  She  referred  familiarly 
to  princes  and  famous  statesmen,  as  if  she  had 
gossiped  with  them  tete-a-tete  over  the  teacups. 
She  was  full  of  spicy  little  anecdotes  about  Ger- 

36 


The  Yukon  Trail 

man  royalty  and  the  British  aristocracy.  It  was 
no  wonder,  Gordon  Elliot  thought,  that  she  had 
rather  stunned  the  little  social  set  of  Kusiak. 

Through  Northrup  and  Trelawney  a  new  slant 
on  Macdonald  was  given  to  Gordon.  He  had 
fallen  into  casual  talk  with  them  after  dinner 
on  the  fore  deck.  It  was  still  raining,  but  all 
three  were  equipped  with  slickers  or  mackin 
toshes.  To  his  surprise  the  young  man  discov 
ered  that  they  bore  him  no  grudge  at  all  for  his 
interference  the  night  before. 

"But  we  ain't  through  with  Colby  Macdon 
ald  yet,"  Trelawney  explained.  "Mind,  I  don't 
say  we're  going  to  get  him.  Nothing  like  that. 
He  knocked  me  cold  with  that  loaded  suitcase 
of  his.  By  the  looks  of  him  I'm  even  for  that. 
Good  enough.  But  here's  the  point.  We  stand 
for  Labor.  He  stands  for  Capital.  See?  Things 
ain't  what  they  used  to  be  in  Alaska,  and  it's 
because  of  Colby  Macdonald  and  his  friends. 
They're  grabbers  —  that's  what  they  are.  They 
want  the  whole  works.  A  hell  of  a  roar  goes  up 
from  them  when  the  Government  stops  their 
combines,  but  all  the  time  they  're  bearing  down 
a  little  harder  on  us  workingmen.  Understand? 
It's  up  to  us  to  fight,  ain't  it?" 

Later  Elliot  put  this  viewpoint  before  Strong. 

"There's  something  in  it,"  the  miner  agreed. 
"Wages  have  gone  down,  and  it's  partly  be- 

37 


The  Yukon  Trail 

cause  the  big  fellows  are  consolidating  interests. 
Alaska  ain't  a  poor  man's  country  the  way  it 
was.  But  Mac  ain't  to  blame  for  that.  He  has 
to  play  the  game  the  way  the  cards  are  dealt  out." 

The  sky  was  clear  again  when  the  Hannah 
drew  in  to  the  wharf  at  Moose  Head  to  unload 
freight,  but  the  mud  in  the  unpaved  street  lead 
ing  to  the  business  section  of  the  little  frontier 
town  was  instep  deep.  Many  of  the  passengers 
hurried  ashore  to  make  the  most  of  the  five-hour 
stop.  Macdonald,  with  Mrs.  Mallory  and  their 
Kusiak  friends,  disappeared  in  a  bus.  Elliot 
put  on  a  pair  of  heavy  boots  and  started  uptown. 

At  the  end  of  the  wharf  he  passed  Miss  O'Neill. 
She  wore  no  rubbers  and  she  had  come  to  a  halt 
at  the  beginning  of  the  mud.  After  a  momen 
tary  indecision  she  returned  slowly  to  the  boat. 

The  young  man  walked  up  into  the  town,  but 
ten  minutes  later  he  crossed  the  gangplank  of 
the  Hannah  again  with  a  package  under  his 
arm.  Miss  O'Neill  was  sitting  on  the  forward 
deck  making  a  pretense  to  herself  of  reading. 
This  was  where  Elliot  had  expected  to  find  her, 
but  now  that  the  moment  of  attack  had  come 
he  had  to  take  his  fear  by  the  throat.  When 
he  had  thought  of  it  first  there  seemed  nothing 
difficult  about  offering  to  do  her  a  kindness,  yet 
he  found  himself  shrinking  from  the  chance  of 
a  rebuff. 

38 


The  Yukon  Trail 

He  moved  over  to  where  she  sat  and  lifted  his 
hat.  "I  hope  you  won't  think  it  a  liberty,  Miss 
O'Neill,  but  I ' ve  brought  you  some  rubbers  from 
a  store  uptown.  I  noticed  you  could  n't  get  ashore 
without  them." 

Gordon  tore  the  paper  wrapping  from  his 
package  and  disclosed  half  a  dozen  pairs  of 
rubbers. 

The  girl  was  visibly  embarrassed.  She  was 
not  at  all  certain  of  the  right  thing  to  do.  Where 
she  had  been  brought  up  young  men  did  not 
offer  courtesies  of  this  sort  so  informally. 

"I  —  I  think  I  won't  need  them,  thank  you. 
I've  decided  not  to  leave  the  boat,"  she  an 
swered  shyly. 

Elliot  had  never  been  accused  of  being  a 
quitter.  Having  begun  this,  he  proposed  to  see 
it  out.  He  caught  sight  of  the  purser  superin 
tending  the  discharge  of  cargo  and  called  to  him 
by  name.  The  officer  joined  them,  a  pad  of 
paper  and  a  pencil  in  his  hand. 

"I'm  trying  to  persuade  Miss  O'Neill  that 
she  ought  to  go  ashore  while  we're  lying  here. 
What  was  it  you  told  me  about  the  waterfall 
back  of  the  town?" 

"Finest  thing  of  its  kind  in  Alaska.  They're 
so  proud  of  it  in  this  burg  that  they  would  like 
to  make  it  against  the  law  for  any  one  to  leave 
without  seeing  it.  Every  one  takes  it  in.  We 

39 


The  Yukon  Trail 

won't  get  away  till  night.    YouVe  plenty  of 
time  if  you  want  to  see  it." 

"  Now,  will  you  please  introduce  me  to  Miss 
O'Neill  formally?" 

The  purser  went  through  the  usual  formula 
of  presentation,  adding  that  Elliot  was  a  govern 
ment  official  on  his  way  to  Kusiak.  Having  done 
his  duty  by  the  young  man,  the  busy  super 
cargo  retired. 

"I'm  sure  it  would  do  you  good  to  walk  up 
to  the  waterfall  with  me,  Miss  O'Neill,"  urged 
Elliot. 

She  met  a  little  dubiously  the  smile  that 
would  not  stay  quite  extinguished  on  his  good- 
looking,  boyish  face.  Why  should  n't  she  go 
with  him,  since  it  was  the  American  way  for 
unchaperoned  youth  to  enjoy  itself  naturally? 

"If  they'll  fit,"  the  girl  answered,  eyeing  the 
rubbers. 

Gordon  dropped  to  his  knee  and  demonstrated 
that  they  would. 

As  they  walked  along  the  muddy  street  she 
gave  him  a  friendly  little  nod  of  thanks.  "  Good 
of  you  to  take  the  trouble  to  look  out  for  me." 

He  laughed.  "It  was  myself  I  was  looking  out 
for.  I  'm  a  stranger  in  the  country  and  was  aw 
fully  lonesome." 

"Is  it  that  this  is  your  first  time  in  too?"  she 
asked  shyly. 

40 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"You're  going  to  Kusiak,  aren't  you?  Do 
you  know  anybody  there?"  replied  Elliot. 

"My  cousin  lives  there,  but  I  haven't  seen 
her  since  I  was  ten.  She's  an  American.  Eleven 
years  ago  she  visited  us  in  Ireland." 

"I'm  glad  you  know  some  one,"  he  said. 
"You'll  not  be  so  lonesome  with  some  of  your 
people  living  there.  I  have  two  friends  at  Ku 
siak  —  a  girl  I  used  to  go  to  school  with  and  her 
husband." 

"  Are  you  going  to  live  at  Kusiak?  " 

"No;  but  I'll  be  stationed  in  the  Territory 
for  several  months.  I  '11  be  in  and  out  of  the  town 
a  good  deal.  I  hope  you'll  let  me  see  some 
thing  of  you." 

The  fine  Irish  coloring  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 
He  had  a  way  of  taking  in  his  stride  the  barri 
ers  between  them,  but  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  feel  offended  at  this  cheery,  vigorous  young 
fellow  with  the  winning  smile  and  the  firm-set 
jaw.  She  liked  the  warmth  in  his  honest  brown 
eyes.  She  liked  the  play  of  muscular  grace  be 
neath  his  well-fitting  clothes.  The  sinuous  ease 
of  his  lean,  wide-shouldered  body  stirred  faintly 
some  primitive  instinct  in  her  maiden  heart. 
Sheba  did  not  know,  as  her  resilient  muscles 
carried  her  forward  joyfully,  that  she  was  an 
swering  the  call  of  youth  to  youth. 

Gordon  respected  her  shyness  and  moved 
41 


The  Yukon  Trail 

warily  to  establish  his  contact.  He  let  the  talk 
drift  to  impersonal  topics  as  they  picked  their 
way  out  from  the  town  along  the  mossy  trail. 
The  ground  was  spongy  with  water.  On  either 
side  of  them  ferns  and  brakes  grew  lush.  Sheba 
took  the  porous  path  with  a  step  elastic.  To 
the  young  man  following  she  seemed  a  miracle 
of  supple  lightness. 

The  trail  tilted  up  from  the  lowlands,  led 
across  dips,  and  into  a  draw.  A  little  stream 
meandered  down  and  gurgled  over  rocks  worn 
smooth  by  ages  of  attrition.  Alders  brushed  the 
stream  and  their  foliage  checkered  the  trail  with 
sunlight  and  shadow. 

They  were  ascending  steadily  now  along  a 
pathway  almost  too  indistinct  to  follow.  The 
air  was  aromatic  with  pine  from  a  grove  that 
came  straggling  down  the  side  of  a  gulch  to  the 
brook. 

"Do  you  know,  I  have  a  queer  feeling  that 
I've  seen  all  this  before,"  the  Irish  girl  said. 
"Of  course  I  haven't  —  unless  it  was  in  my 
dreams.  Naturally  I've  thought  about  Alaska 
a  great  deal  because  my  father  lived  here." 

"I  did  n't  know  that." 

"Yes.  He  came  in  with  the  Klondike  stam- 
peders."  She  added  quietly:  "He  died  on  Bo 
nanza  Creek  two  years  later." 

"Was  he  a  miner?" 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Not  until  he  came  North.  He  had  an  in 
terest  in  a  claim.  It  later  turned  out  worthless." 

A  bit  of  stiff  climbing  brought  them  to  a 
boulder  field  back  of  which  rose  a  mountain 
ridge. 

"We've  got  off  the  trail  somehow,"  Elliot 
said.  "But  I  don't  suppose  it  matters.  If  we 
keep  going  we're  bound  to  come  to  the  water 
fall." 

Beyond  the  boulder  field  the  ridge  rose  sharply. 
Gordon  looked  a  little  dubiously  at  Sheba. 

"Are  you  a  good  climber?" 

As  she  stood  in  the  sunpour,  her  cheeks  flushed 
with  exercise,  he  could  see  that  her  spirit  courted 
adventure. 

"I'm  sure  I  must  be,"  she  answered  with  a 
smile  adorable.  "I  believe  I  could  do  the  Mat- 
terhorn  to-day." 

Well  up  on  the  shoulder  of  the  ridge  they 
stopped  to  breathe.  The  distant  noise  of  falling 
water  came  faintly  to  them. 

"We're  too  far  to  the  left  —  must  have  fol 
lowed  the  wrong  spur,"  Elliot  explained.  "Prob 
ably  we  can  cut  across  the  face  of  the  moun 
tain." 

Presently  they  came  to  an  impasse.  The  gulch 
between  the  two  spurs  terminated  in  a  rock  wall 
that  fell  almost  sheer  for  two  hundred  feet. 

The  color  in  the  cheeks  beneath  the  eager 

43 


The  Yukon  Trail 

eyes  of  the  girl  was  warm.  "Let's  try  it,"  she 
begged. 

The  young  man  had  noticed  that  she  was  as 
sure-footed  as  a  mountain  goat  and  that  she 
could  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  without 
dizziness.  The  surface  of  the  wall  was  broken. 
What  it  might  be  beyond  he  could  not  tell,  but 
the  first  fifty  feet  was  a  bit  of  attractive  and  not 
too  difficult  rock  traverse. 

Now  and  again  he  made  a  suggestion  to  the 
young  woman  following  him,  but  for  the  most 
part  he  trusted  her  to  choose  her  own  foot  and 
hand  holds.  Her  delicacy  was  silken  strong. 
If  she  was  slender,  she  was  yet  deep-bosomed. 
The  movements  of  the  girl  were  as  certain  as 
those  of  an  experienced  mountaineer. 

The  way  grew  more  difficult.  They  had  been 
following  a  ledge  that  narrowed  till  it  ran  out. 
Jutting  knobs  of  feldspar  and  stunted  shrubs 
growing  from  crevices  offered  toe-grips  instead 
of  the  even  foothold  of  the  rock  shelf.  As  Gor 
don  looked  down  at  the  dizzy  fall  beneath  them 
his  judgment  told  him  they  had  better  go  back. 
He  said  as  much  to  his  companion. 

The  smile  she  flashed  at  him  was  delightfully 
provocative.  It  served  to  point  the  figure  she 
borrowed  from  Gwen.  "So  you  think  I'm  a 
'fraid-cat,  Mr.  Elliot?" 

His  inclination  marched  with  hers.  It  was 

44 


"SO   YOU  THINK  I'M  A  'FRAID-CAT,  MR.  ELLIOT' 


The  Yukon  Trail 

their  first  adventure  together  and  he  did  not 
want  to  spoil  it  by  undue  caution.  There  really 
was  not  much  danger  yet  so  long  as  they  were 
careful. 

Gordon  abandoned  the  traverse  and  followed 
an  ascending  crack  in  the  wall.  The  going  was 
hard.  It  called  for  endurance  and  muscle,  as 
well  as  for  a  steady  head  and  a  sure  foot.  He 
looked  down  at  the  girl  wedged  between  the 
slopes  of  the  granite  trough. 

She  read  his  thought.  "The  old  guard  never 
surrenders,  sir,"  was  her  quick  answer  as  she 
brushed  in  salute  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers  a 
stray  lock  of  hair. 

The  trough  was  worse  than  Elliot  had  ex 
pected.  It  had  in  it  a  good  deal  of  loose  rubble 
that  started  in  small  slides  at  the  least  pressure. 

"Be  very  careful  of  your  footing,"  he  called 
back  anxiously. 

A  small  grassy  platform  lay  above  the  upper 
end  of  the  trough,  but  the  last  dozen  feet  of  the 
approach  was  a  very  difficult  bit.  Gordon  took 
advantage  of  every  least  projection.  He  fought 
his  way  up  with  his  back  against  one  wall  and 
his  knees  pressed  to  the  other.  Three  feet  short 
of  the  platform  the  rock  walls  became  abso 
lutely  smooth.  The  climber  could  reach  within 
a  foot  of  the  top. 

"Are  you  stopped?"  asked  Sheba. 

45 


The  Yukon  Trail 

" Looks  that  way." 

A  small  pine  projected  from  the  edge  of  the 
shelf  out  over  the  precipice.  It  might  be  strong 
enough  to  bear  his  weight.  It  might  not.  Gor 
don  unbuckled  his  belt  and  threw  one  end  over 
the  trunk  of  the  dwarf  tree.  Gingerly  he  tested 
it  with  his  weight,  then  went  up  hand  over  hand 
and  worked  himself  over  the  edge  of  the  little 
plateau. 

"All  right?"  the  girl  called  up. 

"All  right.  But  you  can't  make  it.  I'm  com 
ing  down  again." 

"I'm  going  to  try." 

"I  wouldn't,  Miss  O'Neill.  It's  really  dan 
gerous." 

"I'd  like  to  try  it.  I'll  stop  if  it's  too  hard," 
she  promised. 

The  strength  of  her  slender  wrists  surprised 
him.  She  struggled  up  the  vertical  crevasse 
inch  by  inch.  His  heart  was  full  of  fear,  for  a 
misstep  now  would  be  fatal.  He  lay  down  with 
his  face  over  the  ledge  and  lowered  to  her  the 
buckled  loop  of  his  belt.  Twice  she  stopped  ex 
hausted,  her  back  and  her  hands  pressed  against 
the  walls  of  the  trough  angle  for  support. 

"Better  give  it  up,"  he  advised. 

"I'll  not  then."  She  smiled  stubbornly  as 
she  shook  her  head. 

Presently  her  fingers  touched  the  belt. 

46 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Gordon  edged  forward  an  inch  or  two  farther. 
"Put  your  hand  through  the  loop  and  catch  hold 
of  the  leather  above,"  he  told  her. 

She  did  so,  and  at  the  same  instant  her  foot 
slipped.  The  girl  swung  out  into  space  sus 
pended  by  one  wrist.  The  muscles  of  Elliot 
hardened  into  steel  as  they  responded  to  the 
strain.  His  body  began  to  slide  very  slowly  down 
the  incline. 

In  a  moment  the  acute  danger  was  past. 
Sheba  had  found  a  hold  with  her  feet  and  re 
lieved  somewhat  the  dead  pull  upon  Elliot. 

She  had  not  voiced  a  cry,  but  the  face  that 
looked  up  into  his  was  very  white. 

"Take  your  time,"  he  said  in  a  quiet,  matter- 
of-fact  way. 

With  his  help  she  came  close  enough  for  him 
to  reach  her  hand.  After  that  it  was  only  a  mo 
ment  before  she  knelt  on  the  plateau  beside  him. 

"Touch  and  go,  wasn't  it?"  Sheba  tried  to 
smile,  but  the  colorless  lips  told  the  young  man 
she  was  still  faint  from  the  shock. 

He  knew  he  was  going  to  reproach  himself 
bitterly  for  having  led  her  into  such  a  risk,  but 
he  could  not  just  now  afford  to  waste  his  ener 
gies  on  regrets.  Nor  could  he  let  her  mind  dwell 
on  past  dangers  so  long  as  there  were  future 
ones  to  be  faced. 

"You  might  have  sprained  your  wrist,"  he 

47 


The  Yukon  Trail 

said  lightly  as  he  rose  to  examine  the  cliff  still 
to  be  negotiated. 

Her  dark  eyes  looked  at  him  with  quick  sur 
prise.  "So  I  might,"  she  answered  dryly. 

But  his  indifferent  tone  had  the  effect  upon  her 
of  a  plunge  into  cold  water.  It  braced  and  stif 
fened  her  will.  If  he  wanted  to  ignore  the  terrible 
danger  through  which  she  had  passed,  certainly 
she  was  not  going  to  remind  him  of  it. 

Between  where  they  stood  and  the  summit  of 
the  cliff  was  another  rock  traverse.  A  kind  of 
rough,  natural  stairway  led  down  to  a  point 
opposite  them.  But  before  this  could  be  reached 
thirty  feet  of  granite  must  be  crossed.  The  wall 
looked  hazardous  enough  in  all  faith.  It  lay  in 
the  shade,  and  there  were  spots  where  a  thin 
coating  of  ice  covered  the  smooth  slabs.  But 
there  was  no  other  way  up,  and  if  the  traverse 
could  be  made  the  rest  was  easy. 

Gordon  was  mountaineer  enough  to  know 
that  the  climb  up  is  safer  than  the  one  back. 
The  only  possible  way  for  them  to  go  down  the 
trough  was  for  him  to  lower  her  by  the  belt 
until  she  found  footing  enough  to  go  alone.  He 
did  not  quite  admit  it  to  himself,  but  in  his  heart 
he  doubted  whether  she  could  make  it  safely. 

The  alternative  was  the  cliff  face. 


CHAPTER  V 

ACROSS   THE   TRAVERSE 

ELLIOT  took  off  his  shoes  and  turned  toward 
the  traverse. 

"Think  I'll  see  if  I  can  cross  to  that  stair 
way.  You  had  better  wait  here,  Miss  O'Neill, 
until  we  find  out  if  it  can  be  done." 

His  manner  was  casual,  his  voice  studiously 
light. 

Sheba  looked  across  the  cliff  and  down  to  the 
boulder  bed  two  hundred  feet  below.  :'You 
can  never  do  it  in  the  world.  Is  n't  there  an 
other  way  up?" 

"No.  The  wall  above  us  slopes  out.  I've  got 
to  cross  to  the  stairway.  If  I  make  it  I  'm  going 
to  get  a  rope." 

"Do  you  mean  you're  going  back  to  town  for 
one?" 

"Yes." 

Her  eyes  fastened  to  his  in  a  long,  unspoken 
question.  She  read  the  answer.  He  was  afraid 
to  have  her  try  the  trough  again.  To  get  back 
to  town  by  way  of  their  roundabout  ascent 
would  waste  time.  If  he  was  going  to  rescue  her 
before  night,  he  must  take  the  shortest  cut,  and 

49 


The  Yukon  Trail 

that  was  across  the  face  of  the  sheer  cliff.  For 
the  first  time  she  understood  how  serious  was 
their  plight. 

"We  can  go  back  together  by  the  trough, 
can't  we?"  But  even  as  she  asked,  her  heart 
sank  at  the  thought  of  facing  again  that  dizzy 
height.  The  moment  of  horror  when  she  had 
thought  herself  lost  had  shaken  her  nerve. 

"It  would  be  difficult." 

The  glance  of  the  girl  swept  again  the  face  of 
the  wall  he  must  cross.  It  could  not  be  done  with 
out  a  rope.  Her  fear-filled  eyes  came  back  to  his. 

"It's  my  fault.  I  made  you  come,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Nonsense,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "There's 
no  harm  done.  If  I  can't  reach  the  stairway  I 
can  come  back  and  go  down  by  the  trough." 

Sheba  assented  doubtfully. 

It  had  come  on  to  drizzle  again.  The  rain  was 
fine  and  cold,  almost  a  mist,  and  already  it  was 
forming  a  film  of  ice  on  the  rocks. 

"I  can't  take  time  to  go  back  by  the  trough. 
The  point  is  that  I  don't  want  you  camped  up 
here  after  night.  There  has  been  no  sun  on 
this  side  of  the  spur  and  in  the  chill  of  the  eve 
ning  it  must  get  cold  even  in  summer." 

He  was  making  his  preparations  as  he  talked. 
His  coat  he  took  off  and  threw  down.  His  shoes 
he  tied  by  the  laces  to  his  belt. 

50 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"I'll  try  not  to  be  very  long,"  he  promised. 

"It's  God's  will  then,  so  it  is,"  she  sighed,  re 
lapsing  into  the  vernacular. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  not  very  steady,  for 
the  heart  of  the  girl  was  heavy.  She  knew  she 
must  not  protest  his  decision.  That  was  not 
the  way  to  play  the  game.  But  somehow  the  salt 
had  gone  from  their  light-hearted  adventure. 
She  had  become  panicky  from  the  moment  when 
her  feet  had  started  the  rubble  in  the  trough  and 
gone  flying  into  the  air.  The  gayety  that  had 
been  the  note  of  their  tramp  had  given  place  to 
fears. 

Elliot  took  her  little  hand  in  a  warm,  strong 
grip.  "You're  not  going  to  be  afraid.  We'll 
work  out  all  right,  you  know." 

"Yes." 

"It's  not  just  the  thing  to  leave  a  lady  in  the 
rain  when  you  take  her  for  a  walk,  but  it  can't 
be  helped.  We'll  laugh  about  it  to-morrow." 

Would  they?  she  wondered,  answering  his  smile 
faintly.  Her  courage  was  sapped.  She  wanted  to 
cry  out  that  he  must  not  try  the  traverse,  but 
she  set  her  will  not  to  make  it  harder  for  him. 

He  turned  to  the  climb. 

"You've  forgotten  your  coat,"  she  reminded. 

"I'm  traveling  light  this  trip.  You'd  better 
slip  it  on  before  you  get  chilled." 

Sheba  knew  he  had  left  it  on  purpose  for  her. 

51 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Her  fascinated  eyes  followed  him  while  he 
moved  out  from  the  plateau  across  the  face  of 
the  precipice.  His  hand  had  found  a  knob  of 
projecting  feldspar  and  he  was  feeling  with  his 
right  foot  for  a  hold  in  some  moss  that  grew  in 
a  crevice.  He  had  none  of  the  tools  for  climbing 
—  no  rope,  no  hatchet,  none  of  the  support  of 
numbers.  All  the  allies  he  could  summon  were 
his  bare  hands  and  feet,  his  resilient  muscles, 
and  his  stout  heart.  To  make  it  worse,  the  ice 
film  from  the  rain  coated  every  jutting  inch  of 
quartz  with  danger. 

But  he  worked  steadily  forward,  moving  with 
the  infinite  caution  of  one  who  knows  that 
there  will  be  no  chance  to  remedy  later  any 
mistake.  A  slight  error  in  judgment,  the  failure 
in  response  of  any  one  of  fifty  muscles,  would 
send  him  plunging  down. 

Occasionally  he  spoke  to  Sheba,  but  she  vol 
unteered  no  remarks.  It  was  her  part  to  wait 
and  watch  while  he  concentrated  every  faculty 
upon  his  task.  He  had  come  to  an  impasse  after 
crossing  a  dozen  feet  of  the  wall  and  was  work 
ing  up  to  get  around  a  slab  of  granite  which 
protruded,  a  convex  barrier,  from  the  surface 
of  the  cliff.  It  struck  the  girl  that  from  a  dis 
tance  he  must  look  like  a  fly  on  a  pane  of  glass. 
Even  to  her,  close  as  she  was,  that  smooth  rock 
surface  looked  impossible. 

M 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Her  eye  left  him  for  an  instant  to  sweep  the 
gulf  below.  She  gave  a  little  cry,  ran  to  his  coat, 
and  began  to  wave  it.  For  the  first  time  since 
Elliot  had  begun  the  traverse  she  took  the  ini 
tiative  in  speech. 

"I  see  some  people  away  over  to  the  left,  Mr. 
Elliot.  I'm  going  to  call  to  them."  Her  voice 
throbbed  with  hope. 

But  it  was  not  her  shouts  or  his,  which  would 
not  have  carried  one  tenth  the  distance,  that 
reached  the  group  in  the  valley.  One  of  them 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  wildly  waving  coat. 
There  was  a  consultation  and  two  or  three 
fluttered  handkerchiefs  in  response.  Presently 
they  moved  on. 

Sheba  could  not  believe  her  eyes.  "  They  're 
not  leaving  us  surely?"  she  gasped. 

"That's  what  they're  doing,"  answered  Gor 
don  grimly.  "They  think  we're  calling  to  them 
out  of  vanity  to  show  them  where  we  climbed." 

"Oh!"  She  strangled  a  sob  in  her  throat. 
Her  heart  was  weighted  as  with  lead. 

"I'm  going  to  make  it.  I  think  I  see  my  way 
from  here,"  her  companion  called  across  to  her. 
"A  fault  runs  to  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  if  I 
can  only  do  the  next  yard  or  two." 

He  did  them,  by  throwing  caution  to  the 
winds.  An  icy,  rounded  boulder  projected 
above  him  out  of  reach.  He  unfastened  his 

53 


The  Yukon  Trail 

belt  again  and  put  the  shoes,  tied  by  the  laces, 
around  his  neck.  There  was  one  way  to  get 
across  to  the  ledge  of  the  fault.  He  took  hold  of 
the  two  ends  of  the  belt,  crouched,  and  leaned 
forward  on  tiptoes  toward  the  knob.  The  loop 
of  the  belt  slid  over  the  ice-coated  boss.  There 
was  no  chance  to  draw  back  now,  to  test  the 
hold  he  had  gained.  If  the  leather  slipped  he 
was  lost.  His  body  swung  across  the  abyss  and 
his  feet  landed  on  the  little  ledge  beyond. 

His  shout  of  success  came  perhaps  ten  min 
utes  later.  "I've  reached  the  stairway,  Miss 
O'Neill.  I  '11  try  not  to  be  long,  but  you  'd  better 
exercise  to  keep  up  the  circulation.  Don't  worry, 
please.  I'll  be  back  before  night." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  cried  joyfully.  "I  was 
afraid  for  you.  And  I  '11  not  worry  a  bit.  Good- 
bye." 

Elliot  made  his  way  up  to  the  summit  and 
ran  along  a  footpath  which  brought  him  to  a 
bridge  across  the  mountain  stream  just  above 
the  falls.  The  trail  zigzagged  down  the  turbulent 
little  river  close  to  the  bank.  Before  he  had 
specialized  on  the  short  distances  Gordon  had 
been  a  cross-country  runner.  He  was  in  fair  con 
dition  and  he  covered  the  ground  fast. 

About  a  mile  below  the  falls  he  met  two  men. 
One  of  them  was  Colby  Macdonald.  He  carried 
a  coil  of  rope  over  one  shoulder.  The  big  Alaskan 

54 


The  Yukon  Trail 

explained  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  it  out 
of  his  head  that  perhaps  the  climbers  who  had 
waved  at  his  party  had  been  in  difficulties.  So 
he  had  got  a  rope  from  the  cabin  of  an  old  miner 
and  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  falls. 

The  three  climbed  to  the  falls,  crossed  the 
bridge,  and  reached  the  top  of  the  cliff. 

"  You  know  the  lay  of  the  land  down  there,  Mr. 
Elliot.  We'll  lower  you,"  decided  Macdonald, 
who  took  command  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Gordon  presently  stood  beside  Sheba  on  the 
little  plateau.  She  had  quite  recovered  from  the 
touch  of  hysteria  that  had  attacked  her  courage. 
The  wind  and  the  rain  had  whipped  the  color 
into  her  soft  cheeks,  had  disarranged  a  little  the 
crinkly,  blue-black  hair,  wet  tendrils  of  which  nes 
tled  against  her  temples.  The  health  and  buoy 
ancy  of  the  girl  were  in  the  live  eyes  that  met  his 
eagerly. 

"You  were  n't  long,"  was  all  she  said. 

"I  met  them  coming,"  he  answered  as  he 
dropped  the  loop  of  the  rope  over  her  head  and 
arranged  it  under  her  shoulders. 

He  showed  her  how  to  relieve  part  of  the  strain 
of  the  rope  on  her  flesh  by  using  her  hands  to  lift. 

"All  ready?"  Macdonald  called  from  above. 

"All  ready,"  Elliot  answered.  To  Sheba  he 
said,  "Hold  tight." 

The  girl  was  swung  from  the  ledge  and  rose 

55 


The  Yukon  Trail 

jerkily  in  the  air.  She  laughed  gayly  down  at 
her  friend  below. 

"It's  fun." 

Gordon  followed  her  a  couple  of  minutes  later. 
She  was  waiting  to  give  him  a  hand  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff. 

"Miss  O'Neill,  this  is  Mr.  Macdonald,"  he 
said,  as  soon  as  he  had  freed  himself  from  the 
rope.  "You  are  fellow  passengers  on  the  Han 
nah." 

Macdonald  was  looking  at  her  straight  and 
hard.  "Your  father's  name  —  was  it  Farrell 
O'Neill?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  him." 

The  girl's  eyes  lit.  "I'm  glad,  Mr.  Mac 
donald.  That's  one  reason  I  wanted  to  come  to 
Alaska  —  to  hear  about  my  father's  life  here. 
Will  you  tell  me?" 

"Sometime.  We  must  be  going  now  to  catch 
the  boat  —  after  I  Ve  had  a  look  at  the  cliff  this 
young  man  crawled  across." 

He  turned  away,  abruptly  it  struck  Elliot,  and 
climbed  down  the  natural  stairway  up  which  the 
young  man  had  come.  Presently  he  rejoined  those 
above.  Macdonald  looked  at  Elliot  with  a  new 
respect. 

"You're  in  luck,  my  friend,  that  we're  not 
carrying  you  from  the  foot  of  the  cliff,"  he  said 

56 


The  Yukon  Trail 

dryly.  "I  wouldn't  cross  that  rock  wall  for  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  in  cold  cash." 

"Nor  I  again,"  admitted  Gordon  with  a 
laugh.  "But  we  had  either  to  homestead  that 
plateau  or  vacate  it.  I  preferred  the  latter." 

Miss  O'NeuTs  deep  eyes  looked  at  him.  She 
was  about  to  speak,  then  changed  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SHEBA   SINGS  —  AND   TWO   MEN   LISTEN 

ELLIOT  did  not  see  Miss  O'Neill  next  morning 
until  she  appeared  in  the  dining-room  for  break 
fast.  He  timed  himself  to  get  through  so  as  to 
join  her  when  she  left.  They  strolled  out  to  the 
deck  together. 

"Did  you  sleep  well?"  he  asked. 

"After  I  fell  asleep.  It  took  me  a  long  time. 
I  kept  seeing  you  on  the  traverse." 

He  came  abruptly  to  what  was  on  his  mind. 
"I  have  an  apology  to  make,  Miss  O'Neill.  If  I 
made  light  of  your  danger  yesterday,  it  was  be 
cause  I  was  afraid  you  might  break  down.  I  had 
to  seem  unsympathetic  rather  than  risk  that." 

She  smiled  forgiveness.  "All  you  said  was  that 
I  might  have  sprained  my  wrist.  It  was  true 
too.  I  might  have — and  I  did."  Sheba  showed 
a  white  linen  bandage  tied  tightly  around  her 
wrist. 

"Does  it  pain  much?" 

"Not  so  much  now.  It  throbbed  a  good  deal 
last  night." 

:<  Your  whole  weight  came  on  it  with  a  wrench. 
No  wonder  it  hurt." 

58 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Sheba  noticed  that  the  Hannah  was  drawing  up 
to  a  wharf  and  the  passengers  were  lining  up  with 
their  belongings.  "Is  this  where  we  change?" 

"Those  of  us  going  to  Kusiak  transfer  here. 
But  there's  no  hurry.  We  wait  at  this  landing 
two  hours." 

Gordon  helped  Sheba  move  her  baggage  to  the 
other  boat  and  joined  her  on  deck.  They  were 
both  strangers  in  the  land.  Their  only  common 
acquaintance  was  Macdonald  and  he  was  letting 
Mrs.  Mallory  absorb  his  attention  just  now.  Left 
to  their  own  resources  the  two  young  people  nat 
urally  drifted  together  a  good  deal. 

This  suited  Elliot.  He  found  his  companion 
wholly  delightful,  not  the  less  because  she  was 
so  different  from  the  girls  he  knew  at  home. 
She  could  be  frank,  and  even  shyly  audacious 
on  occasion,  but  she  held  a  little  note  of  reserve 
he  felt  bound  to  respect.  Her  experience  of  the 
world  had  clearly  been  limited.  She  was  not  at  all 
sure  of  herself,  of  the  proper  degree  of  intimacy 
to  permit  herself  with  a  strange  and  likable  young 
man  who  had  done  her  so  signal  a  service. 

Macdonald  left  the  boat  twenty  miles  below 
Kusiak  with  Mrs.  Mallory  and  the  Self  ridges.  A 
chauffeur  with  a  motor-car  was  waiting  on  the 
wharf  to  run  them  to  town,  but  he  gave  the 
wheel  to  Macdonald  and  took  the  seat  beside  the 
driver. 

59 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  little  miner  Strong  grinned  across  to  Elliot, 
who  was  standing  beside  Miss  O'Neill  at  the  boat 
rail. 

"That's  Mae  all  over.  He  hires  a  fellow  to  run 
his  car  —  brings  him  up  here  from  Seattle  —  and 
then  takes  the  wheel  himself  every  time  he  rides. 
I  don't  somehow  see  Mac  sitting  back  and  letting 
another  man  run  the  machine." 

It  was  close  to  noon  before  the  river  boat 
turned  a  bend  and  steamed  up  to  the  wharf  at 
Kusiak.  The  place  was  an  undistinguished  little 
log  town  that  rambled  back  from  the  river  up 
the  hill  in  a  hit-or-miss  fashion.  Its  main  street 
ran  a  tortuous  course  parallel  to  the  stream. 

Half  of  the  town,  it  seemed,  was  down  to  meet 
the  boat. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  hotel  or  direct  to  your 
cousin's?"  Gordon  asked  Miss  O'Neill. 

"To  my  cousin's.  I  fancy  she's  down  here  to 
meet  me.  It  was  arranged  that  I  come  on  this 
boat." 

There  was  much  waving  of  handkerchiefs  and 
shouting  back  and  forth  as  the  steamer  slowly 
drew  close  to  the  landing. 

Elliot  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  only  people  in 
Kusiak  he  had  known  before  coming  in,  but 
though  he  waved  to  them  he  saw  they  did  not 
recognize  him.  After  the  usual  delay  about  get 
ting  ashore  he  walked  down  the  gangway  carry- 

60 


The  Yukon  Trail 

ing  the  suitcases  of  the  Irish  girl.  Sheba  followed 
at  his  heels.  On  the  wharf  he  came  face  to  face 
with  a  slender,  well-dressed  young  woman. 

"Diane!"  he  cried. 

She  stared  at  him.  "You!  What  in  Heaven's 
name  are  you  doing  here,  Gordon  Elliot?  "  she  de 
manded,  and  before  he  could  answer  had  seized 
both  hands  and  turned  excitedly  to  call  a  stocky 
man  near.  "Peter  —  Peter!  Guess  who's  here?" 

"Hello,  Paget!"  grinned  Gordon,  and  he  shook 
hands  with  the  husband  of  Diane. 

Elliot  turned  to  introduce  his  friend,  but  she 
anticipated  him. 

"Cousin  Diane,"  she  said  shyly.  "Don't  you 
know  me?" 

Mrs.  Paget  swooped  down  upon  the  girl  and 
smothered  her  in  her  embrace. 

"This  is  Sheba  — little  Sheba  that  I  have 
told  you  so  often  about,  Peter,"  she  cried. 
"Glory  be,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  child."  And 
Diane  kissed  her  again  warmly.  "You  two  met 
on  the  boat,  of  course,  coming  in.  I  hope  you 
didn't  let  her  get  lonesome,  Gordon.  Look 
after  Sheba's  suitcases,  Peter.  You'll  come  to 
dinner  to-night,  Gordon  —  at  seven." 

"  I  'm  in  the  kind  hands  of  my  countrywoman," 
laughed  Gordon.  "I'll  certainly  be  on  hand." 

"But  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here? 
You're  the  last  man  I'd  have  expected  to  see." 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"I'm  in  the  service  of  the  Government,  and 
I've  been  sent  in  on  business." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  say  something  original, 
dear  people,"  Mrs.  Paget  replied.  "It's  a  small 
world,  is  n't  it?" 

While  he  was  dressing  for  dinner  later  in  the 
day,  Elliot  recalled  early  memories  of  the  Pagets. 
He  had  known  Diane  ever  since  they  had  been 
youngsters  together  at  school.  He  remembered 
her  as  a  restless,  wiry  little  thing,  keen  as  a 
knife-blade.  She  had  developed  into  a  very 
pretty  girl,  alive,  ambitious,  energetic,  with  a 
shrewd  eye  to  the  main  chance.  Always  popular 
socially,  she  had  surprised  everybody  by  refus 
ing  the  catch  of  the  town  to  marry  a  young 
mining  engineer  without  a  penny.  Gordon  was 
in  college  at  the  time,  but  during  the  next  long 
vacation  he  had  fraternized  a  good  deal  with 
the  Peter  Pagets.  The  young  married  people 
had  been  very  much  in  love  with  each  other,  but 
not  too  preoccupied  to  take  the  college  boy  into 
their  happiness  as  a  comrade.  Diane  always 
had  been  a  manager,  and  she  liked  playing  older 
sister  to  so  nice  a  lad.  He  had  been  on  a  footing 
friendly  enough  to  drop  in  unannounced  when 
ever  he  took  the  fancy.  If  they  were  out,  or 
about  to  go  out,  the  freedom  of  the  den,  a  maga 
zine,  and  good  tobacco  had  been  his.  Then  the 
Arctic  gold-fields  had  claimed  Paget  and  his 


The  Yukon  Trail 

bride.  That  had  been  more  than  ten  years  ago, 
and  until  to-day  Gordon  had  not  seen  them  since. 

While  Elliot  was  brushing  his  dinner  coat 
before  the  open  window  of  the  room  assigned 
him  at  the  hotel,  somebody  came  out  to  the 
porch  below.  The  voice  of  a  woman  floated 
faintly  to  him. 

"Seen  Diane's  Irish  beauty  yet,  Ned?" 

"Yes,"  a  man  answered. 

The  woman  laughed  softly.  "Mrs.  Mallory 
came  up  on  the  same  boat  with  her."  The  in 
flection  suggested  that  the  words  were  meant 
not  to  tell  a  fact,  but  some  less  obvious  infer 
ence. 

"  Oh,  you  women ! "  the  man  commented  good- 
naturedly. 

"She's  wonderfully  pretty,  and  of  course 
Diane  will  make  the  most  of  her.  But  Mrs. 
Mallory  is  a  woman  among  ten  thousand." 

"I'd  choose  the  girl  if  it  were  me,"  said  the 
man. 

"But  it  is  n't  you.   We'll  see  what  we'll  see." 

They  were  moving  up  the  street  and  Gordon 
heard  no  more.  What  he  had  heard  was  not 
clear  to  him.  Why  should  any  importance  at- 
tach  to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Mallory  and  Sheba 
O'Neill  had  come  up  the  river  on  the  same  boat? 
Yet  he  was  vaguely  disturbed  by  the  insinua 
tion  that  in  some  way  Diane  was  entering  her 

63 


The  Yukon  Trail 

cousin  as  a  rival  of  the  older  woman.  He  re 
sented  the  idea  that  the  fine,  young  personality 
of  the  Irish  girl  was  being  cheapened  by  man 
agement  on  the  part  of  Diane  Pa,get. 

Elliot  was  not  the  only  dinner  guest  at  the 
Paget  home  that  evening.  He  found  Colby 
Macdonald  sitting  in  the  living-room  with 
Sheba.  She  came  quickly  forward  to  meet  the 
newly  arrived  guest. 

"Mr.  Macdonald  has  been  telling  me  about 
my  father.  He  knew  him  on  Frenchman  Creek 
where  they  both  worked  claims,"  explained  the 
girl. 

The  big  mining  man  made  no  comment  and 
added  nothing  to  what  she  said.  There  were 
times  when  his  face  was  about  as  expressive  as  a 
stone  wall.  Except  for  a  hard  wariness  in  the 
eyes  it  told  nothing  now. 

The  dinner  went  off  very  well.  Diane  and 
Peter  had  a  great  many  questions  to  ask  Gor 
don  about  old  friends.  By  the  time  these  had 
been  answered  Macdonald  was  chatting  easily 
with  Sheba.  The  man  had  been  in  many  out- 
of-the-way  corners  of  the  world,  had  taken  part 
in  much  that  was  dramatic  and  interesting.  If 
the  experience  of  the  Irish  girl  had  been  small, 
her  imagination  had  none  the  less  gone  questing 
beyond  the  narrow  bars  of  her  life  upon  amaz 
ing  adventure.  She  listened  with  glowing  eyes 

64 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  the  strange  tales  this  man  of  magnificent 
horizons  had  to  tell.  Never  before  had  she  come 
into  contact  with  any  one  like  him. 

The  others  too  succumbed  to  his  charm.  He 
dominated  that  little  dining-room  because  he 
was  a  sixty-horse-power  dynamo.  For  all  his 
bulk  he  was  as  lean  as  a  panther  and  as  sinewy. 
There  was  virility  in  the  very  economy  of  his 
motions,  in  the  reticence  of  his  speech.  Not 
even  a  fool  could  have  read  weakness  there. 
When  he  followed  Sheba  into  the  living-room, 
power  trod  in  his  long,  easy  stride. 

Paget  was  superintendent  of  the  Lucky  Strike, 
a  mine  owned  principally  by  Macdonald.  The 
two  talked  business  for  a  few  minutes  over  their 
cigars,  but  Diane  interrupted  gayly  to  bring 
them  back  into  the  circle.  Adroitly  she  started 
Macdonald  on  the  account  of  a  rescue  of  two 
men  lost  in  a  blizzard  the  year  before.  He  had 
the  gift  of  dramatizing  his  story,  of  selecting 
only  effective  details.  There  was  no  suggestion 
of  boasting.  If  he  happened  to  be  the  hero  of 
any  of  his  stories  the  fact  was  of  no  importance 
to  him.  It  was  merely  a  detail  of  the  picture  he 
was  sketching. 

Gordon  interrupted  with  a  question  a  story 
he  was  telling  of  a  fight  he  had  seen  between 
two  bull  moose. 

"Did  you  say  that  was  while  you  were  on  the 
65 


The  Yukon  Trail 

way  over  to  inspect  the  Kamatlah  coal-fields  for 
the  first  time?" 

The  eyes  of  the  young  man  were  quick  with 
interest. 

"Yes." 

"Four  years  ago  last  spring?" 

Macdonald  looked  at  him  with  a  wary  steadi 
ness.  Some  doubt  had  found  lodgment  in  his 
mind.  Before  he  could  voice  it,  if,  indeed,  he 
had  any  such  intention,  Elliot  broke  in  swiftly, — 

"  Don't  answer  that  question.  I  asked  it  with 
out  proper  thought.  I  am  a  special  agent  of  the 
General  Land  Office  sent  up  to  investigate  the 
Macdonald  coal  claims  and  kindred  interests." 

Slowly  the  rigor  of  the  big  Scotchman's  steely 
eyes  relaxed  to  a  smile  that  was  genial  and  dis 
arming.  If  this  news  hit  him  hard  he  gave  no 
sign  of  it.  And  that  it  was  an  unexpected  blow 
there  could  be  no  doubt. 

"Glad  you've  come,  Mr.  Elliot.  We  ask 
nothing  but  fair  play.  Tell  the  truth,  and  we'll 
thank  you.  The  men  who  own  the  Macdonald 
group  of  claims  have  nothing  to  conceal.  I'll 
answer  that  question.  I  meant  to  say  two  years 
ago  last  spring." 

His  voice  was  easy  and  his  gaze  unwavering 
as  lie  made  the  correction,  yet  everybody  in  the 
room  except  Sheba  knew  he  was  deliberately 
lying  to  cover  the  slip.  For  the  admission  that 

06 


The  Yukon  Trail 

he  had  inspected  the  Kamatlah  field  just  be 
fore  his  dummies  had  filed  upon  it  would  at 
least  tend  to  aggravate  suspicion  that  the  en 
tries  were  not  bona-fide. 

It  was  rather  an  awkward  moment.  Diane 
blamed  herself  because  she  had  brought  the 
men  together  socially.  Why  had  she  not  asked 
Gordon  more  explicitly  what  his  business  was? 
Peter  grinned  a  little  uncomfortably.  It  was 
Sheba  who  quite  unconsciously  relieved  the 
situation. 

"But  what  about  the  big  moose,  Mr.  Mac- 
donald?  What  did  it  do  then?" 

The  Alaskan  went  back  to  his  story.  He  was 
talking  for  Sheba  alone,  for  the  young  girl  with 
eager,  fascinated  eyes  which  flashed  with  sym 
pathy  as  they  devoured  selected  glimpses  of  his 
wild,  turbulent  career.  Her  clean,  brave  spirit 
was  throwing  a  glamour  over  the  man.  She  saw 
him  with  other  eyes  than  Elliot's.  The  Govern 
ment  official  admired  him  tremendously.  Mac- 
donald  was  an  empire-builder.  He  blazed  trails 
for  others  to  follow  in  safety.  But  Gordon  could 
guess  how  callously  his  path  was  strewn  with 
brutality,  with  the  effects  of  an  ethical  color 
blindness  largely  selfish,  though  even  he  did 
not  know  that  the  man's  primitive  jungle  code 
of  wolf  eat  wolf  had  played  havoc  with  Sheba's 
young  life  many  years  before. 

67 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Diane,  satisfied  that  Macdonald  had  scored, 
called  upon  Sheba. 

"I  want  you  to  sing  for  us,  dear,  if  you  will." 
Sheba  accompanied  herself.   The  voice  of  the 
girl  had  no  unusual  range,  but  it  was  singu 
larly  sweet  and  full  of  the  poignant  feeling  that 
expresses  the  haunting  pathos  of  her  race. 

"It's  well  I  know  ye,  Sheve  Cross, 

ye  weary,  stony  hill, 
An'  I'm  tired,  och,  I'm  tired  to  be 

looking  on  ye  still. 
For  here  I  live  the  near  side 
an'  he  is  on  the  far, 
An'  all  your  heights  and  hollows  are 
between  us,  so  they  are. 
Ochanee!" 

Gordon,  as  he  listened,  felt  the  strange  hun 
ger  of  that  homesick  cry  steal  through  his  blood. 
He  saw  his  own  emotions  reflected  in  the  face 
of  the  Scotch-Canadian,  who  was  watching  with 
a  tense  interest  the  slim,  young  figure  at  the 
piano,  the  girl  whose  eyes  were  soft  and  dewy 
with  the  mysticism  of  her  people,  were  still 
luminous  with  the  poetry  of  the  child  in  spite 
of  the  years  that  heralded  her  a  woman. 

Elliot  intercepted  the  triumphant  sweep  of 
Diane's  glance  from  Macdonald  to  her  husband. 
In  a  flash  it  lit  up  for  him  the  words  he  had 
heard  on  the  hotel  porch.  Diane,  an  inveterate 

68 


The  Yukon  Trail 

matchmaker,  intended  her  cousin  to  marry 
Colby  Macdonald.  No  doubt  she  thought  she 
was  doing  a  fine  thing  for  the  girl.  He  was  a 
millionaire,  the  biggest  figure  in  the  Northwest. 
His  iron  will  ran  the  town  and  district  as  though 
the  people  were  chattels  of  his.  Back  of  him 
were  some  of  the  biggest  financial  interests  in 
the  United  States. 

But  the  gorge  of  Elliot  rose.  The  man,  after 
all,  was  a  law-breaker,  a  menace  to  civilization. 
He  was  a  survivor  by  reason  of  his  strength 
from  the  primitive  wolf -pack.  Already  the  spe 
cial  agent  had  heard  many  strange  stories  of 
how  this  man  of  steel  had  risen  to  supremacy 
by  trampling  down  lesser  men  with  whom  he 
had  had  dealings,  of  terrible  battles  from  which 
his  lean,  powerful  body  had  emerged  bloody 
and  battered,  but  victorious.  The  very  look  of 
his  hard,  gray  eyes  was  dominant  and  master 
ful.  He  would  win,  no  matter  how.  It  came  to 
Gordon's  rebel  heart  that  if  Macdonald  wanted 
this  lovely  Irish  girl,  —  and  the  young  man 
never  doubted  that  the  Scotchman  would  want 
her,  —  he  would  reach  out  and  gather  in  Sheba 
just  as  if  she  were  a  coal  mine  or  a  placer 
prospect. 

All  this  surged  through  the  mind  of  the  young 
man  while  the  singer  was  on  the  first  line  of  the 
second  stanza. 

69 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"But  if  't  was  only  Sheve  Cross 

to  climb  from  foot  to  crown, 
I  'd  soon  be  up  an'  over  that, 

I  'd  soon  be  runnin'  down. 
Then  sure  the  great  ould  sea  itself 

is  there  beyont  the  bar, 
An*  all  the  windy  wathers  are 
between  us,  so  they  are. 
Ochanee!" 

The  rich,  soft,  young  voice  with  its  Irish 
brogue  died  away.  The  little  audience  paid  the 
singer  the  tribute  of  silence.  She  herself  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"  'Divided'  is  the  name  of  it.  A  namesake  of 
mine,  Moira  O'Neill,  wrote  it,"  she  explained. 

"It's  a  beautiful  song,  and  I  thank  ye  for 
singing  it,"  Macdonald  said  simply.  "It  minds 
me  of  my  own  barefoot  days  by  the  Tay." 

Later  in  the  evening  the  two  dinner  guests 
walked  back  to  the  hotel  together.  The  two 
subjects  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  both  were 
not  mentioned  by  either.  They  discussed  casu 
ally  the  cost  of  living  in  the  North,  the  raising 
of  strawberries  at  Kusiak,  and  the  best  way  to 
treat  the  mosquito  nuisance,  but  neither  of 
them  referred  to  the  Macdonald  coal  claims  or 
to  Sheba  O'Neill. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WALLY   GETS   ORDERS 

MACDONALD,  from  his  desk,  looked  up  at  the 
man  in  the  doorway.  Selfridge  had  come  in 
jauntily,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  but  at  sight  of 
the  grim  face  of  his  chief  the  grin  fled. 

"Come  in  and  shut  the  door,"  ordered  the 
Scotchman.  "I  sent  for  you  to  congratulate 
you,  Wally.  You  did  fine  work  outside.  You  told 
me,  did  n't  you,  that  it  was  all  settled  at  last  — 
that  our  claims  are  clear-listed  for  patent?" 

The  tubby  little  man  felt  the  edge  of  irony 
in  the  quiet  voice.  "Sure.  That's  what  Winton 
told  me,"  he  assented  nervously. 

"Then  you'll  be  interested  to  know  that  a 
special  field  agent  of  the  Land  Department  sat 
opposite  me  last  night  and  without  batting  an 
eye  came  across  with  the  glad  news  that  he  was 
here  to  investigate  our  claims." 

Selfridge  bounced  up  like  a  rubber  ball  from 
the  chair  into  which  he  had  just  settled.  "  What !" 

"Pleasant  surprise,  isn't  it?  I've  been  won 
dering  what  you  were  doing  outside.  Of  course 
I  know  you  had  to  take  in  the  shows  and  caba 
rets  of  New  York.  But  could  n't  you  edge  in  an 
hour  or  two  once  a  week  to  attend  to  business?" 

71 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Wally's  collar  began  to  choke  him.  The  cool, 
hard  words  of  the  big  Scotchman  pelted  like 
hail. 

"Must  be  a  bluff,  Mac.  The  muckrake  maga 
zines  have  raised  such  a  row  about  the  Gutten- 
child  crowd  putting  over  a  big  steal  on  the  pub 
lic  that  the  party  leaders  are  scared  stiff.  I 
could  n't  pick  up  a  newspaper  anywhere  with 
out  seeing  your  name  in  the  headlines.  It  was 
fierce."  Self  ridge  had  found  his  glib  tongue  and 
was  off. 

"I  understand  that,  Wally.  What  I  don't 
get  is  how  you  came  to  let  them  slip  this  over 
on  you  without  even  a  guess  that  it  was  going 
to  happen." 

That  phase  of  the  subject  Self  ridge  did  not 
want  to  discuss. 

"Bet  you  a  hat  I've  guessed  it  right  —  just  a 
grand-stand  play  of  the  Administration  to  fool 
the  dear  people.  This  fellow  has  got  his  orders 
to  give  us  a  clean  bill  of  health.  Sure.  That 
must  be  it.  I  suppose  it's  this  man  Elliot  that 
came  up  on  the  boat  with  us." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  that's  easy.  If  he  hasn't  been  seen 
we  can  see  him." 

Macdonald  looked  his  man  Friday  over  with 
a  scarcely  veiled  contempt.  :<You  have  a  beau 
tiful,  childlike  faith  in  every  man's  dishonesty, 

72 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Wally.   Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  some  peo 
ple  are  straight  —  that  they  won't  sell  out?" 

"All  he  gets  is  a  beggarly  two  thousand  or  so 
a  year.  We  can  fix  him  all  right." 

"You've  about  as  much  vision  as  a  breed 
trader.  Unless  I  miss  my  guess  Elliot  is  n't  that 
kind.  He'll  go  through  to  a  finish.  What  I'd 
like  to  know  is  how  his  mind  works.  If  he  sees 
straight  we're  all  right,  but  if  he  is  a  narrow 
conservation  fanatic  he  might  go  ahead  and 
queer  the  whole  game." 

"You  wouldn't  stand  for  that."  The  quick 
glance  of  Selfridge  asked  a  question. 

The  lips  of  the  Scotchman  were  like  steel 
traps  and  his  eyes  points  of  steel.  "We'll  cross 
that  bridge  if  we  come  to  it.  Our  first  move  is 
to  try  to  win  him  to  see  this  thing  our  way.  I  '11 
have  a  casual  talk  with  him  before  he  leaves  for 
Kamatlah  and  feel  him  out." 

"What's  he  doing  here  at  all?  If  he's  inves 
tigating  the  Kamatlah  claims,  why  does  he  go 
hundreds  of  miles  out  of  his  way  to  come  in  to 
Kusiak?"  asked  Selfridge. 

Macdonald  smiled  sardonically.  "He's  do 
ing  this  job  right.  Elliot  as  good  as  told  me 
that  he's  on  the  job  to  look  up  my  record  thor 
oughly.  So  he  comes  to  Kusiak  first.  In  a  few 
days  he'll  leave  for  Kamatlah.  That's  where 
you  come  in,  Wally." 

73 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"You're  going  to  start  for  Kamatlah  to 
morrow.  You'll  arrange  the  stage  before  he 
gets  there  —  see  all  the  men  and  the  foremen. 
Line  them  up  so  they'll  come  through  with  the 
proper  talk.  If  you  have  any  doubts  about 
whether  you  can  trust  some  one,  don't  take  any 
chances.  Fire  him  out  of  the  camp.  Offer  Elliot 
the  company  hospitality.  Load  him  down  with 
favors.  Take  him  everywhere.  Show  him  every 
thing.  But  don't  let  him  get  any  proofs  that 
the  claims  are  being  worked  under  the  same 
management." 

"But  he'll  suspect  it." 

"You  can't  help  his  suspicions.  Don't  let 
him  get  proof.  Cover  all  the  tracks  that  show 
company  control." 

"I  can  fix  that,"  he  said.  "But  what  about 
Holt?  The  old  man  won't  do  a  thing  but  tell 
all  he  knows,  and  a  lot  more  that  he  suspects. 
You  know  how  bitter  he  is  —  and  crazy.  He 
ought  to  be  locked  away  with  the  flitter-mice." 

"You  must  n't  let  Elliot  meet  Holt." 

"How  the  deuce  can  I  help  it?  No  chance 
to  keep  them  apart  in  that  little  hole.  It  can't 
be  done." 

"Can't  it?" 

Something  in  the  quiet  voice  rang  a  bell  of 
alarm  in  the  timid  heart  of  Selfridge. 

74 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"You  mean—" 

"A  man  who  works  for  me  as  my  lieutenant 
must  have  nerve,  Wally.  Have  you  got  it?  Will 
you  take  orders  and  go  through  with  them?" 

His  hard  eyes  searched  the  face  of  the  plump 
little  man.  This  was  a  job  he  would  have  liked 
to  do  himself,  but  he  could  not  get  away  just 
now.  Selfridge  was  the  only  man  about  him  he 
could  trust  with  it. 

Wally  nodded.  His  lips  were  dry  and  parched. 
"Go  to  it.  What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Get  Holt  out  of  the  way  while  Elliot  is  at 
Kamatlah." 

"But,  Good  Lord,  I  can't  keep  the  man  tied 
up  a  month,"  protested  the  leading  tenor  of 
Kusiak. 

"It  is  n't  doing  Holt  any  good  to  sit  tight 
clamped  to  that  claim  of  his.  He  needs  a  change. 
Besides,  I  want  him  away  so  that  we  can  con 
test  his  claim.  Run  him  up  into  the  hills.  Or 
send  him  across  to  Siberia  on  a  whaler.  Or, 
better  still,  have  him  arrested  for  insanity  and 
send  him  to  Nome.  I'll  get  Judge  Landor  to 
hold  him  a  while." 

"That  would  give  him  an  alibi  for  his  absence 
and  prevent  a  contest." 

"That's  right.  It  would." 

"Leave  it  to  me.  The  old  man  is  going  on  a 
vacation,  though  he  does  n't  know  it  yet." 

75 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Good  enough,  Wally.  I'll  trust  you.  But 
remember,  this  fight  has  reached  an  acute  stage. 
No  more  mistakes.  The  devil  of  it  is  we  never 
seem  to  land  the  knockout  punch.  We've  beaten 
this  bunch  of  reform  idiots  before  Winton,  be 
fore  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  before  the 
President,  and  before  Congress.  Now  they're 
beginning  all  over  again.  Where  is  it  to  end?" 

"This  is  their  last  kick.  Probably  Gutten- 
child  agreed  to  it  so  as  to  let  the  party  go  before 
the  people  at  the  next  election  without  any 
apologies.  Entirely  formal  investigation,  I  should 
say." 

This  might  be  true,  or  it  might  not.  Mac- 
donald  knew  that  just  now  the  American 
people,  always  impulsive  in  its  thinking,  was 
supporting  strongly  the  movement  for  conserva 
tion.  A  searchlight  had  been  turned  upon  the 
Kamatlah  coal-fields.  Magazines  and  news 
papers  had  hammered  it  home  to  readers  that 
the  Guttenchild  and  allied  interests  were  en 
gaged  in  a  big  steal  from  the  people  of  coal, 
timber,  and  power-site  lands  to  the  value  of 
more  than  a  hundred  million  dollars. 

The  trouble  had  originated  in  a  department 
row,  but  it  had  spread  until  the  Macdonald 
claims  had  become  a  party  issue.  The  officials 
of  the  Land  Office,  as  well  as  the  National  Ad 
ministration,  were  friendly  to  the  claimants. 

76 


The  Yukon  Trail 

They  had  no  desire  to  offend  one  of  the  two  larg 
est  money  groups  in  the  country.  But  neither 
did  they  want  to  come  to  wreck  on  account  of 
the  Guttenchilds.  They  found  it  impossible  to 
ignore  the  charge  that  the  entries  were  fraudu 
lent  and  if  consummated  would  result  in  a  whole 
sale  robbery  of  the  public  domain.  Superficial 
investigations  had  been  made  and  the  claimants 
whitewashed.  But  the  clamor  had  persisted. 

Though  he  denied  it  officially,  Macdonald 
made  a  present  to  the  public  of  the  admission 
that  the  entries  were  irregular.  Laws,  he  held, 
were  made  for  men  and  should  be  interpreted 
to  aid  progress.  Bad  ones  ought  to  be  evaded. 

The  facts  were  simple  enough.  Macdonald 
was  the  original  promoter  of  the  Kamatlah  coal 
field.  He  had  engaged  dummy  entry  men  to 
take  up  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  each  under 
the  Homestead  Act.  Later  he  intended  to  con 
solidate  the  claims  and  turn  them  over  to  the 
Guttenchilds  under  an  agreement  by  which  he 
was  to  receive  one  eighth  of  the  stock  of  the  com 
pany  formed  to  work  the  mines.  The  entries 
had  been  made,  the  fee  accepted  by  the  Land 
Office,  and  receipts  issued.  In  course  of  time 
Macdonald  had  applied  for  patents. 

Before  these  were  issued  the  magazines  began 
to  pour  in  their  broadsides,  and  since  then  the 
papers  had  been  held  up. 

77 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  conscience  of  Macdonald  was  quite  clear. 
The  pioneers  in  Alaska  were  building  out  of  the 
Arctic  waste  a  new  empire  for  the  United  States, 
and  he  held  that  a  fair  Government  could  do 
no  less  than  offer  them  liberal  treatment.  To 
lock  up  from  present  use  vast  resources  needed 
by  Alaskans  would  be  a  mistaken  policy,  a 
narrow  and  perverted  application  of  the  doc 
trine  of  conservation.  The  Territory  should  be 
thrown  open  to  the  world.  If  capital  were  in 
vited  in  to  do  its  share  of  the  building,  immigra 
tion  would  flow  rapidly  northward.  Within  the 
lives  of  the  present  generation  the  new  empire 
would  take  shape  and  wealth  would  pour  in 
evitably  into  the  United  States  from  its  frozen 
treasure  house. 

The  view  held  by  Macdonald  was  one  com 
mon  to  the  whole  Pacific  Coast.  Seattle,  Port 
land,  San  Francisco  were  a  unit  in  the  belief  that 
the  Government  had  no  right  to  close  the  door 
of  Alaska  and  then  put  a  padlock  upon  it. 

Feminine  voices  drifted  from  the  outer  office. 
Macdonald  opened  the  door  to  let  in  Mrs.  Sel- 
fridge  and  Mrs.  Mallory. 

The  latter  lady,  Paris-shod  and  gloved,  shook 
hands  smilingly  with  the  Scotch-Canadian. 
"Of  course  we're  intruders  in  business  hours, 
though  you'll  tell  us  we're  not,"  she  suggested. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  surrender  easily  to  the 

78 


The  Yukon  Trail 

spell  of  woman,  but  when  he  looked  into  her 
deep-lidded,  smouldering  eyes  something  sultry 
beat  in  his  blood. 

"Business  may  fly  out  of  the  window  when 
Mrs.  Mallory  comes  in  at  the  door,"  he  an 
swered. 

"How  gallant  of  you,  especially  when  I've 
come  with  an  impertinent  question."  Her  gay 
eyes  mocked  him  as  she  spoke. 

"Then  I'll  probably  tell  you  to  mind  your 
own  business,"  he  laughed.  "Let's  have  your 
question." 

"I've  just  been  reading  the  'Transcontinental 
Magazine.'  A  writer  there  says  that  you  are  a 
highway  robber  and  a  gambler.  I  know  you're 
a  robber  because  all  the  magazines  say  so.  But 
are  you  only  a  big  gambler?" 

He  met  her  raillery  without  the  least  embar 
rassment. 

"Sure  I  gamble.  Every  time  I  take  a  chance 
I'm  gambling.  So  does  everybody  else.  When 
you  walk  past  the  Flatiron  Building  you  bet  it 
won't  fall  down  and  crush  you.  We've  got  to 
take  chances  to  live." 

"  How  true,  and  I  never  thought  of  it,"  beamed 
Mrs.  Selfridge.  "What  a  philosopher  you  are, 
Mr.  Macdonald." 

The  Scotchman  went  on  without  paying  any 
attention  to  her  effervescence.  "I've  gambled 

79 


The  Yukon  Trail 

ever  since  I  was  a  kid.  I  bet  I  could  cross  Death 
Valley  and  get  out  alive.  That  time  I  won.  I 
bet  it  would  rain  once  down  in  Arizona  before 
my  cattle  died.  I  lost.  Another  time  I  took  a 
contract  to  run  a  tunnel.  In  my  bid  I  bet  I 
would  n't  run  into  rock.  My  bank  went  broke 
that  trip.  When  I  joined  the  Klondike  rush  I 
was  backing  my  luck  to  stand  up.  Same  thing 
when  I  located  the  Kamatlah  field.  The  coal 
might  be  a  poor  quality.  Maybe  I  could  n't 
interest  big  capital  in  the  proposition.  Perhaps 
the  Government  would  turn  me  down  when  I 
came  to  prove  up.  I  was  betting  my  last  dollar 
against  big  odds.  When  I  quit  gambling  it  will 
be  because  I've  quit  living." 

"And  I  suppose  I'm  a  gambler  too?"  Mrs. 
Mallory  demanded  with  a  little  tilt  of  her  hand 
some  head. 

He  looked  straight  at  her  with  the  keen  eyes 
that  had  bored  through  her  from  the  first  day 
they  had  met,  the  eyes  that  understood  the 
manner  of  woman  she  was  and  liked  her  none 
the  less. 

"Of  all  the  women  I  know  you  are  the  best 
gambler.  It's  born  in  you." 

"Why,  Mr.  Macdonald!"  screamed  Mrs.  Sel- 
fridge  in  her  high  staccato.  "I  don't  think  that's 
a  compliment." 

Mrs.  Mallory  did  not  often  indulge  in  the 

80 


The  Yukon  Trail 

luxury  of  a  blush,  but  she  changed  color  now. 
This  big,  blunt  man  sometimes  had  an  uncanny 
divination.  Did  he,  she  asked  herself,  know  what 
stake  she  was  gambling  for  at  Kusiak? 

"You  are  too  wise,"  she  laughed  with  a  touch 
of  embarrassment  very  becoming.  "But  I  sup 
pose  you  are  right.  I  like  excitement." 

"We  all  do.  The  only  man  who  does  n't  gam 
ble  is  the  convict  in  stripes,  and  the  only  reason 
he  does  n't  is  that  his  chips  are  all  gone.  It 's 
true  that  men  on  the  frontier  play  for  bigger 
stakes.  They  back  their  bets  with  all  they  have 
got  and  put  their  lives  on  top  for  good  measure. 
But  kids  in  the  cradle  ?11  over  the  United  States 
are  going  to  live  easier  because  of  the  gamblers 
at  the  dropping-off  places.  That  writer  fellow 
hit  the  nail  on  the  head  about  me.  My  whole 
life  is  a  gamble." 

She  moved  with  slow  grace  toward  the  door, 
then  over  her  shoulder  flashed  a  sudden  invi 
tation  at  him.  "Mrs.  Self  ridge  and  I  are  doing 
a  little  betting  to-day,  Big  Chief  Gambler. 
We're  backing  our  luck  that  you  two  men  will 
eat  lunch  with  us  at  the  Blue  Bird  Inn.  Do  we 
win?" 

Macdonald  reached  for  his  hat  promptly. 
"You  win." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   END   OF   THE    PASSAGE 

WALLY  SELFRIDGE  was  a  reliable  business 
subordinate,  even  though  he  had  slipped  up  in 
the  matter  of  the  appointment  of  Elliot.  But 
when  it  came  to  facing  the  physical  hardships 
of  the  North  he  was  a  malingerer.  The  Kamat- 
lah  trip  had  to  be  taken  because  his  chief  had 
ordered  it,  but  the  little  man  shirked  the  jour 
ney  in  his  heart  just  as  he  knew  his  soft  muscles 
would  shrink  from  the  aches  of  the  trail. 

His  idea  of  work  was  a  set  of  tennis  on  the 
outdoor  wooden  court  of  the  Kusiak  clubhouse, 
and  even  there  his  game  was  not  a  hard,  smash 
ing  one,  but  an  easy  foursome  with  a  girl  for 
partner.  He  liked  better  to  play  bridge  with 
attendants  at  hand  to  supply  drinks  and  cigars. 
By  nature  he  was  a  sybarite.  The  call  of  the 
frontier  found  no  response  in  his  sophisticated 
soul. 

The  part  of  the  journey  to  be  made  by  water 
was  not  so  bad.  Left  to  his  own  judgment,  he 
would  have  gone  to  St.  Michael's  by  boat  and 
chartered  a  small  steamer  for  the  long  trip  along 
the  coast  through  Bering  Sea.  But  this  would 
take  time,  and  Macdonald  did  not  mean  to  let 

82 


The  Yukon  Trail 

him  waste  a  day.  He  was  to  leave  the  river  boat 
at  the  big  bend  and  pack  across  country  to 
Kamatlah.  It  would  be  a  rough,  heavy  trail. 
The  mosquitoes  would  be  a  continual  torment. 
The  cooking  would  be  poor.  And  at  the  end  of 
the  long  trek  there  awaited  him  monotonous 
months  in  a  wretched  coal  camp  far  from  all 
the  comforts  of  civilization.  No  wonder  he 
grumbled. 

But  though  he  grumbled  at  home  and  at  the 
club  and  on  the  street  about  his  coming  erile, 
Self  ridge  made  no  complaints  to  Macdonald. 
That  man  of  steel  had  no  sympathy  with  the 
yearnings  for  the  fleshpots.  He  was  used  to 
driving  himself  through  discomfort  to  his  end, 
and  he  expected  as  much  of  his  deputies.  Where 
fore  Wally  took  the  boat  at  the  time  scheduled 
and  waved  a  dismal  farewell  to  wife  and  friends 
assembled  upon  the  wharf. 

Elliot  said  good-bye  to  the  Pagets  and  Miss 
O'Neill  ten  days  later.  Diane  was  very  frank 
with  him. 

"I  hear  you've  been  sleuthing  around,  Gor 
don,  for  facts  about  Colby  Macdonald.  I  don't 
know  what  you  have  heard  about  him,  but  I 
hope  you've  got  the  sense  to  see  how  big  a  man 
he  is  and  how  much  this  country  here  owes  him." 

Gordon  nodded  agreement.    "Yes,  he's  a  big 


man.': 


83 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"And  he's  good,"  added  Sheba  eagerly.  "He 
never  talks  of  it,  but  one  finds  out  splendid 
things  he  has  done." 

The  young  man  smiled,  but  not  at  all  super 
ciliously.  He  liked  the  stanch  faith  of  the  girl 
in  her  friend,  even  though  his  investigations 
had  not  led  him  to  accept  goodness  as  the  out 
standing  quality  of  the  Scotchman. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  would  do  without 
him,"  Diane  went  on.  "Give  him  ten  years  and 
a  free  hand  and  Alaska  will  be  fit  for  white 
people  to  live  in.  These  attacks  on  him  by  news 
papers  and  magazines  are  an  outrage." 

"It's  plain  that  you  are  a  partisan,"  charged 
Gordon  gayly. 

"I'm  against  locking  up  Alaska  and  throwing 
away  the  key,  if  that  is  what  you  mean  by  a 
partisan.  We  need  this  country  opened  up  — 
the  farms  settled,  the  mines  worked,  the  coal 
fields  developed,  railroads  built.  It  is  one  great 
big  opportunity,  the  country  here,  and  the  nar 
row  little  conservation  cranks  want  to  shut  it 
up  tight  from  the  people  who  have  energy  and 
foresight  enough  to  help  do  the  building." 

"The  Kusiak  Chamber  of  Commerce  ought 
to  send  you  out  as  a  lecturer  to  change  public 
opinion,  Diane.  You  are  one  enthusiastic  little 
booster  for  freedom  of  opportunity,"  laughed 
the  young  man. 

84 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Oh,  well!"  Diane  joined  in  his  laughter.  It 
was  one  of  her  good  points  that  she  could  laugh 
at  herself .  "I  dare  say  I  do  sound  like  a  real 
estate  pamphlet,  but  it's  all  true  anyhow." 

Gordon  left  Kusiak  as  reluctantly  as  Wally 
Selfridge  had  done,  though  his  reasons  for  not 
wanting  to  go  were  quite  different.  They  cen 
tered  about  a  dusky-eyed  young  woman  whom 
he  had  seen  for  the  first  time  a  fortnight  before. 
He  would  have  denied  even  to  himself  that  he 
was  in  love,  but  whenever  he  was  alone  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  Sheba  O'Neill. 

At  the  big  bend  Gordon  left  the  river  boat  for 
his  cross-country  trek.  Near  the  roadhouse  was 
an  Indian  village  where  he  had  expected  to  get 
a  guide  for  the  journey  to  Kamatlah.  But  the 
fishing  season  had  begun,  and  the  men  had  all 
gone  down  river  to  take  part  in  it. 

The  old  Frenchman  who  kept  the  trading-post 
and  roadhouse  advised  Gordon  not  to  attempt 
the  tramp  alone. 

"The  trail  it  ees  what  you  call  dangerous. 
Feefty-Mile  Swamp  ees  a  monster  that  swallows 
men  alive,  Monsieur.  You  wait  one  week  —  two 
week  —  t'ree  week,  and  some  one  will  turn  up 
to  take  you  through,"  he  urged. 

"But  I  can't  wait.  And  I  have  an  official  map 
of  the  trail.  Why  can't  I  follow  it  without  a 
guide?"  Elliot  wanted  to  know  impatiently. 

85 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  post-trader  shrugged.  "Maybeso,  Mon 
sieur  —  maybe  not.  Feefty-Mile  —  it  ees  one 
devil  of  a  trail.  No  chechakoes  are  safe  in  there 
without  a  guide.  I,  Baptiste,  know." 

"Self ridge  and  his  party  went  through  a  week 
ago.  I  can  follow  the  tracks  they  left." 

"But  if  it  rains,  Monsieur,  the  tracks  will 
vaneesh,  n'est  ce  pas?  Lose  the  way,  and  the 
little  singing  folk  will  swarm  in  clouds  about 
Monsieur  while  he  stumbles  through  the  swamp." 

Elliot  hesitated  for  the  better  part  of  a  day, 
then  came  to  an  impulsive  decision.  He  knew 
the  evil  fame  of  Fifty-Mile  Swamp  —  that  no 
trail  in  Alaska  was  held  to  be  more  difficult  or 
dangerous.  He  knew  too  what  a  fearful  pest 
the  mosquitoes  were.  Peter  had  told  him  a 
story  of  how  he  and  a  party  of  engineers  had 
come  upon  a  man  wandering  in  the  hills,  driven 
mad  by  mosquitoes.  The  traveler  had  lost  his 
matches  and  had  been  unable  to  light  smudge 
fires.  Day  and  night  the  little  singing  devils  had 
swarmed  about  him.  He  could  not  sleep.  He 
could  not  rest.  Every  moment  for  forty-eight 
hours  he  had  fought  for  his  life  against  them. 
Within  an  hour  of  the  time  they  found  him  the 
man  had  died  a  raving  maniac. 

But  Elliot  was  well  equipped  with  mosquito 
netting  and  with  supplies.  He  had  a,  reliable 
map,  and  anyhow  he  had  only  to  follow  the 

86 


The  Yukon  Trail 

tracks  left  by  the  Selfridge  party.  He  turned 
his  back  upon  the  big  river  and  plunged  into  the 
wilderness. 

There  came  a  night  when  he  looked  up  into 
the  stars  of  the  deep,  still  sky  and  knew  that  he 
was  hundreds  of  miles  from  any  other  human 
being.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  been  so  much 
alone.  He  was  not  afraid,  but  there  was  some 
thing  awesome  in  a  world  so  empty  of  his  kind. 
Sometimes  he  sang,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
at  first  startled  him.  It  was  like  living  in  a  world 
primeval,  this  traverse  of  a  land  so  void  of  all 
the  mechanism  that  man  has  built  about  him. 

The  tracks  of  the  Selfridge  party  grew  fainter 
after  a  night  of  rain.  More  rain  fell,  and  they 
were  obliterated  altogether. 

Gordon  fished.  He  killed  fresh  game  for  his 
needs.  Often  he  came  on  the  tracks  of  moose 
and  caribou.  Sometimes,  startled,  they  leaped 
into  view  quite  close  enough  for  a  shot,  but  he 
used  his  rifle  only  to  meet  his  wants.  A  huge 
grizzly  faced  him  on  the  trail  one  afternoon, 
growled  its  menace,  and  went  lumbering  into 
the  big  rocks  with  awkward  speed. 

The  way  led  through  valley  and  morass, 
across  hills  and  mountains.  It  wandered  in  a 
sort  of  haphazard  fashion  through  a  sun-bathed 
universe  washed  clean  of  sordidness  and  mean 
ness.  Always,  as  he  pushed  forward,  the  path 

87 


The  Yukon  Trail 

grew  more  faint  and  uncertain.  Elk  runs  crossed 
it  here  and  there,  so  that  often  Gordon  went 
astray  and  had  to  retrace  his  steps. 

The  maddening  song  of  the  mosquitoes  was 
always  with  him.  Only  when  he  slept  did  he 
escape  from  it.  The  heavy  gloves,  the  netting, 
the  smudge  fires  were  at  best  an  insufficient 
protection. 

It  was  the  seventh  night  out  that  Elliot  sus 
pected  he  was  off  the  trail.  Rain  sluiced  down 
in  torrents  and  next  day  continued  to  pour  from 
a  dun  sky.  His  own  tracks  were  blotted  out  and 
he  searched  for  the  trail  in  vain.  Before  the  rain 
stopped,  he  was  thoroughly  disturbed  in  mind. 
It  would  be  a  serious  business  if  he  should  be  lost 
in  the  bad  lands  of  the  bogs.  Even  though  he 
knew  the  general  direction  he  must  follow,  there 
was  no  certainty  that  he  would  ever  emerge 
from  this  swamp  into  which  he  had  plunged. 

Before  he  knew  it  he  was  entangled  in  Fifty- 
Mile.  His  map  showed  him  the  morass  stretched 
for  fifty  miles  to  the  south,  but  he  knew  that 
it  had  been  charted  hurriedly  by  a  surveying 
party  which  had  made  no  extensive  explora 
tions.  A  good  deal  of  this  country  was  terra  in 
cognita.  It  ran  vaguely  into  a  No  Man's  Land 
unknown  to  the  prospector. 

The  going  was  heavy.  Gordon  had  to  pick  his 
way  through  the  mossy  swamp,  leading  the 

88 


The  Yukon  Trail 

pack-horse  by  the  bridle.  Sometimes  he  was 
ankle-deep  in  water  of  a  greenish  slime.  Again 
he  had  to  drag  the  animal  from  the  bog  to  a 
hummock  of  grass  which  gave  a  spongy  footing. 
This  would  end  in  another  quagmire  of  peat 
through  which  they  must  plough  with  the  mud 
sucking  at  their  feet.  It  was  hard,  wearing  toil. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  keep  moving.  The 
young  man  staggered  forward  till  dusk.  Utterly 
exhausted,  he  camped  for  the  night  on  a  hillock 
of  moss  that  rose  like  an  island  in  the  swamp. 

After  he  had  eaten  he  fed  his  fire  with  green 
boughs  that  raised  a  dense  smoke.  He  lay  on 
the  leeward  side  where  the  smoke  drifted  over 
him  and  fought  mosquitoes  till  a  shift  of  the 
wind  lessened  the  plague.  Toward  midnight  he 
rigged  up  a  net  for  protection  and  crawled  into 
hi*  blankets.  Instantly  he  fell  sound  asleep. 

Elliot  traveled  next  day  by  the  compass.  He 
had  food  for  three  days  more,  but  he  knew  that 
no  living  man  had  the  strength  to  travel  for  so 
long  in  such  a  morass.  It  was  near  midday  when 
he  lost  his  horse.  The  animal  had  bogged  down 
several  times  and  Gordon  had  wasted  much 
time  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  needed  energy 
in  dragging  it  to  firmer  footing.  This  time  the 
pony  refused  to  answer  the  whip.  Its  master 
unloaded  pack  and  saddle.  He  tried  coaxing; 
he  tried  the  whip. 

89 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Come,  Old-Timer.  One  plunge,  and  you'll 
make  it  yet,"  he  urged. 

The  pack-horse  turned  upon  him  dumb  eyes 
of  reproach,  struggled  to  free  its  limbs  from  the 
mud,  and  sank  down  helplessly.  It  had  traveled 
its  last  yard  on  the  long  Alaska  trails. 

After  the  sound  of  the  shot  had  died  away, 
Gordon  struggled  with  the  pack  to  the  nearest 
hummock.  He  cut  holes  in  a  gunny-sack  to  fit 
his  shoulders  and  packed  into  it  his  blankets, 
a  saucepan,  the  beans,  the  coffee,  and  the  di 
minished  handful  of  flour.  Into  it  went  too  the 
three  slices  of  bacon  that  were  left. 

He  hoisted  the  pack  to  his  back  and  slipped 
his  arms  through  the  slits  he  had  made.  Pain 
fully  he  labored  forward  over  the  quivering 
peat.  Every  weary  muscle  revolted  at  the  de 
mands  his  will  imposed  upon  it.  He  drew  on  the 
last  ounce  of  his  strength  and  staggered  forward. 
Sometimes  he  stumbled  and  went  down  into  the 
oozing  mud,  minded  to  stay  there  and  be  done 
with  the  struggle.  But  the  urge  of  life  drove  him 
to  his  feet  again.  It  sent  him  pitching  forward 
drunkenly.  It  carried  him  for  weary  miles  after 
he  despaired  of  ever  covering  another  hundred 
yards. 

With  old,  half-forgotten  signals  from  the  foot 
ball  field  he  spurred  his  will.  Perhaps  his  mind 
was  already  beginning  to  wander,  though  through 

90 


The  Yukon  Trail 

it  all  he  held  steadily  to  the  direction  that  alone 
could  save  him. 

He  clapped  his  hands  feebly  and  stooped  for 
the  plunge  at  the  line  of  the  enemy.  "  'Atta 
boy,  Gord  —  'attaboy  —  nine,  eleven,  seven 
teen.  Hit  'er  low,  you  Elliot." 

When  at  last  he  went  down  to  stay  it  was 
in  an  exhaustion  so  complete  that  not  even  his 
indomitable  will  could  lash  him  to  his  feet  again. 
For  an  hour  he  lay  in  a  stupor,  never  stirring 
even  to  fight  the  swarm  of  mosquitoes  that 
buzzed  about  him. 

Toward  evening  he  sat  up  and  undid  the 
pack  from  his  back.  The  matches,  in  a  tin  box 
wrapped  carefully  with  oilskin,  were  still  per 
fectly  dry.  Soon  he  had  a  fire  going  and  coffee 
boiling  in  the  frying-pan.  From  the  tin  cup  he 
carried  strung  on  his  belt  he  drank  the  coffee. 
It  went  through  him  like  strong  liquor.  He 
warmed  some  beans  and  fried  himself  a  slice  of 
bacon,  sopping  up  the  grease  with  a  cold  bis 
cuit  left  over  from  the  day  before. 

Again  he  slept  for  a  few  hours.  He  had  wound 
his  watch  mechanically  and  it  showed  him  four 
o'clock  when  he  took  up  the  trail  once  more.  In 
Seattle  and  San  Francisco  people  were  still 
asleep  and  darkness  was  heavy  over  the  land. 
Here  it  had  been  day  for  a  long  time,  ever  since 
the  summer  sun,  hidden  for  a  while  behind  the 

91 


The  Yukon  Trail 

low,  distant  hills,  had  come  blazing  forth  again 
in  a  saddle  between  two  peaks. 

Gordon  had  reduced  his  pack  by  discarding  a 
blanket,  the  frying-pan,  and  all  the  clothing  he 
was  not  wearing.  His  rifle  lay  behind  him  in  the 
swamp.  He  had  cut  to  a  minimum  of  safety 
what  he  was  carrying,  according  to  his  judg 
ment.  But  before  long  his  last  blanket  was  flung 
aside.  He  could  not  afford  to  carry  an  extra 
pound,  for  he  knew  he  was  running  a  race,  the 
stakes  of  which  were  life  and  death. 

A  cloud  of  mosquitoes  moved  with  him.  He 
carried  in  his  hand  a  spruce  bough  for  defense 
against  them.  His  hands  were  gloved,  his  face 
was  covered  with  netting.  But  in  spite  of  the 
best  he  could  do  they  were  an  added  torture. 

Afternoon  found  him  still  staggering  forward. 
The  swamps  were  now  behind  him.  He  had  won 
through  at  last  by  the  narrowest  margin  pos 
sible.  The  ground  was  rising  sharply  toward 
the  mountains.  Across  the  range  somewhere 
lay  Kamatlah.  But  he  was  all  in.  With  his  food 
almost  gone,  a  water  supply  uncertain,  reserve 
strength  exhausted,  the  chances  of  getting  over 
the  divide  to  safety  were  practically  none. 

He  had  come,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  to  the 
end  of  the  passage. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GID   HOLT   GOES   PROSPECTING 

As  soon  as  Selfridge  reached  Kamatlah  he 
began  arranging  the  stage  against  the  arrival 
of  the  Government  agent.  His  preparations 
were  elaborate  and  thorough.  A  young  engineer 
named  Rowland  had  been  in  charge  of  the  de 
velopment  work,  but  Wally  rearranged  his  forces 
so  as  to  let  each  dummy  entryman  handle  the 
claim  entered  in  his  name.  One  or  two  men 
about  whom  he  was  doubtful  he  discharged  and 
hurried  out  of  the  camp. 

Selfridge  had  been  given  a  free  hand  as  to  ex 
penses  and  he  oiled  his  way  by  liberal  treatment 
of  the  men  and  by  a  judicious  expenditure.  He 
let  them  know  pretty  plainly  that  if  the  agent 
on  his  way  to  Kamatlah  suspected  corporate 
ownership  of  the  claims,  the  Government  would 
close  down  all  work  and  there  would  be  no  jobs 
for  them. 

The  company  boarding-house  became  a  res 
taurant,  above  which  was  suspended  a  newly 
painted  sign  with  the  legend,  "San  Francisco 
Grill,  J.  Glynn,  Proprietor."  The  store  also 
passed  temporarily  into  the  hands  of  its  mana 
ger.  Miners  moved  from  the  barracks  that  had 

93 


The  Yukon  Trail 

been  built  by  Macdonald  into  hastily  constructed 
cabins  on  the  individual  claims.  Wally  had  al 
ways  fancied  himself  as  a  stage  manager  for 
amateur  theatricals.  Now  he  justified  his  faith 
by  transforming  Kamatlah  outwardly  from  a 
company  camp  to  a  mushroom  one  settled  by 
wandering  prospectors. 

Gideon  Holt  alone  was  outside  of  all  these 
activities  and  watched  them  with  suspicion. 
He  was  an  old-timer,  sly  but  fearless,  who  hated 
Colby  Macdonald  with  a  bitter  jealousy  that 
could  not  be  placated  and  he  took  no  pains  to  hide 
the  fact.  He  had  happened  to  be  in  the  vicinity 
prospecting  when  Macdonald  had  rushed  his 
entries.  Partly  out  of  mere  perversity  and  partly 
by  reason  of  native  shrewdness,  old  Holt  had 
slipped  in  and  located  one  of  the  best  claims 
in  the  heart  of  the  group.  Nor  had  he  been 
moved  to  a  reasonable  compromise  by  any 
amount  of  persuasion,  threats,  or  tentative 
offers  to  buy  a  relinquishment.  He  was  obsti 
nate.  He  knew  a  good  thing  when  he  had  it,  and 
he  meant  to  sit  tight. 

The  adherents  of  the  company  might  charge 
that  Holt  was  cracked  in  the  upper  story,  but 
none  of  them  denied  he  was  sharp  as  a  street  Arab. 
He  guessed  that  all  this  preparation  was  not  for 
nothing.  Kamatlah  was  being  dressed  up  to  im 
press  somebody  who  would  shortly  arrive.  The 

94 


The  Yukon  Trail 

first  thought  of  Holt  was  that  a  group  of  big  capi 
talists  might  be  coming  to  look  over  their  invest 
ment.  But  he  rejected  this  surmise.  There  would 
be  no  need  to  try  any  deception  upon  them. 

Mail  from  Seattle  reached  camp  once  a  month. 
Holt  sat  down  before  his  stove  to  read  one  of 
the  newspapers  he  had  brought  from  the  office. 
It  was  the  "P.-I."  On  the  fifth  page  was  a  little 
boxed  story  that  gave  him  his  clue. 


ELLIOT  TO  INVESTIGATE 
MACDONALD  COAL  CLAIMS 


The  reopening  of  the  controversy  as  to  the 
Macdonald  claims,  which  had  been  clear- 
listed  for  patent  by  Harold  B.  Winton,  the 
Commissioner  of  the  General  Land  Office, 
takes  on  another  phase  with  the  appointment 
of  Gordon  Elliot  as  special  field  agent  to  exam 
ine  the  validity  of  the  holdings.  The  new  field 
agent  won  a  reputation  by  his  work  in  un 
earthing  the  Oklahoma  "Gold  Brick"  land 
frauds. 

Elliot  leaves  Seattle  in  the  Queen  City 
Thursday  for  the  North,  where  he  will  make  a 
thorough  investigation  of  the  whole  situation 
with  a  view  to  clearing  up  the  matter  defi 
nitely.  If  his  report  is  favorable  to  the  claim 
ants,  the  patents  will  be  granted  without  fur 
ther  delay. 


This  was  too  good  to  keep.  Holt  pulled  on  his 
boots  and  went  out  to  twit  such  of  the  enemy 

95 


The  Yukon  Trail 

as  he  might  meet.  It  chanced  that  the  first  of 
them  was  Selfridge,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since 
his  arrival,  though  he  knew  the  little  man  was 
in  camp. 

"How  goes  it,  Holt?  Fine  and  dandy,  eh?" 
inquired  Wally  with  the  professional  geniality 
he  affected. 

The  old  miner  shook  his  head  dolefully.  "I 
done  bust  my  laig,  Mr.  Selfish,"  he  groaned. 
It  was  one  of  his  pleasant  ways  to  affect  a  diffi 
culty  of  hearing  and  a  dullness  of  understand 
ing,  so  that  he  could  legitimately  call  people 
by  distorted  versions  of  their  names.  "The  old 
man  don't  amount  to  much  nowadays.  Onct 
a  man  or  a  horse  gits  stove  up  I  don't  reckon 
either  one  pans  out  much  pay  dust  any  more." 

"Nothing  to  that,  Gid.  You're  younger  than 
you  ever  were,  judging  by  your  looks." 

"Then  my  looks  lie  to  beat  hell,  Mr.  Selfish." 

"My  name  is  Selfridge,"  explained  Wally,  a 
trifle  irritated. 

Holt  put  a  cupped  hand  to  his  ear  anxiously. 
"Shellfish,  did  you  say?  Tha'  's  right.  How- 
come  I  to  forget?  The  old  man's  going  pretty 
fast,  Mr.  Shellfish.  No  more  memory  than  a 
jackrabbit.  Say,  Mr.  Shellfish,  what's  the  idee 
of  all  this  here  back-to-the-people  movement, 
as  the  old  sayin'  is?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  And  my  name 

96 


The  Yukon  Trail 

is  Selfridge,  I  tell  you,"  snapped  the  owner  of 
that  name. 

"  'Course  I  ain't  got  no  more  sense  than  the 
law  allows.  I'm  a  buzzard  haid,  but  me  I  kin 
der  got  to  millin'  it  over  and  in  respect  to  these 
here  local  improvements,  as  you  might  say, 
I'm  doggoned  if  I  sabe  the  whyfor."  There  was 
an  imp  of  malicious  deviltry  in  the  black,  beady 
eyes  sparkling  at  Selfridge  from  between  nar 
rowed  lids. 

"Just  some  business  changes  we're  making." 

Holt  showed  his  tobacco-stained  teeth  in  a 
grin  splenetic.  "Oh.  That's  all.  I  did  n't  know 
but  what  you  might  be  expecting  a  visitor." 

Selfridge  flashed  a  sharp  sidelong  glance  at 
him.  "What  do  you  mean  —  a  visitor?" 

"I  just  got  a  notion  mebbe  you  might  be 
looking  for  one,  Mr.  Pelfrich.  But  I  don't  know 
sic'  'em.  Like  as  not  you  ain't  fixing  up  for  this 
Gordon  Elliot  a-tall." 

Wally  had  no  come-back,  unless  it  was  one 
to  retort  in  ironic  admiration.  :<You're  a  won 
der,  Holt.  Pity  you  don't  start  a  detective 
bureau." 

The  old  man  went  away  cackling  dryly. 

If  Selfridge  had  held  any  doubts  before,  he 
discarded  them  now.  Holt  would  wreck  the 
whole  enterprise,  were  he  given  a  chance.  It 
would  never  do  to  let  Elliot  meet  and  talk  with 

97 


The  Yukon  Trail 

him.  He  knew  too  much,  and  he  was  eager  to 
tell  all  he  knew. 

Macdonald's  lieutenant  got  busy  at  once  with 
plans  to  abduct  Holt.  That  it  was  very  much 
against  the  law  did  not  disturb  him  much  so 
long  as  his  chief  stood  back  of  him.  The  un 
supported  word  of  the  old  man  would  not  stand 
in  court,  and  if  he  became  obstreperous  they 
could  always  have  him  locked  up  as  a  lunatic. 
The  very  pose  of  the  old  miner  —  the  make- 
believe  pretension  that  he  was  half  a  fool  — 
would  lend  itself  to  such  a  charge. 

"We'll  send  the  old  man  off  on  a  prospect 
ing  trip  with  some  of  the  boys,"  explained  Sel- 
fridge  to  Rowland.  "That  way  we'll  kill  two 
birds.  He's  back  on  his  assessment  work.  The 
time  limit  will  be  up  before  he  returns  and  we  '11 
start  a  contest  for  the  claim." 

Howland  made  no  comment.  He  was  an  en 
gineer  and  not  a  politician.  In  his  position  it 
was  impossible  for  him  not  to  know  that  a  good 
deal  about  the  legal  status  of  the  Macdonald 
claims  was  irregular.  But  he  was  a  firm  believer 
in  a  wide-open  Alaska,  in  the  use  of  the  Terri 
tory  by  those  who  had  settled  it.  The  men  back 
of  the  big  Scotchman  were  going  to  spend  mil 
lions  in  development  work,  in  building  railroads. 
It  would  help  labor  and  business.  The  whole 
North  would  feel  a  healthful  reaction  from  the 

98 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Kamatlah  activities.  So,  on  the  theory  that  the 
end  sometimes  justifies  doubtful  means,  he  shut 
his  eyes  to  many  acts  that  in  his  own  private 
affairs  he  would  not  have  countenanced. 

"Better  arrange  it  with  Big  Bill,  then,  but 
don't  tell  me  anything  about  it.  I  don't  want 
to  know  the  details,"  he  told  Selfridge. 

Big  Bill  Macy  accepted  the  job  with  a  grin. 
There  was  double  pay  in  it  both  for  him  and  the 
men  he  chose  as  his  assistants.  He  had  never 
liked  old  Holt  anyhow.  Besides,  they  were  not 
going  to  do  him  any  harm. 

Holt  was  baking  a  batch  of  sour-dough  bread 
that  evening  when  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
cabin  door.  At  sight  of  Big  Bill  and  his  two 
companions  the  prospector  closed  the  oven  and 
straightened  with  alert  suspicion.  He  was  not 
on  visiting  terms  with  any  of  these  men.  Why 
had  they  come  to  see  him?  He  asked  point- 
blank  the  question  in  his  mind. 

"We're  going  prospecting  up  Wild-Goose 
Creek,  and  we  want  you  to  go  along,  Gid,"  ex 
plained  Macy.  "You 're  an  old  sour-dough  miner, 
and  we-all  agree  we'd  like  to  have  you  throw-in 
with  us.  What  say?" 

The  old  miner's  answer  was  direct  but  not 
flattering.  "What  do  I  want  to  go  on  a  wild- 
goose  mush  with  a  bunch  of  bums  for?"  he 
shrilled. 

99 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Bill  Macy  scratched  his  hook  nose  and  looked 
reproachfully  at  his  host.  At  least  Holt  thought 
he  was  looking  at  him.  One  could  not  be  sure, 
for  Bill's  eyes  did  not  exactly  track. 

"That  ain't  no  kind  o'  way  to  talk  to  a  fellow 
when  he  comes  at  you  with  a  fair  proposition, 
Gid." 

"You  tell  Selfridge  I  ain't  going  to  leave 
Kamatlah  —  not  right  now.  I  'm  going  to  stay 
here  on  the  job  till  that  Land  Office  inspector 
comes  —  and  then  I  'm  going  to  have  a  nice, 
long,  confidential  chat  with  him.  See?" 

"What's  the  use  of  snapping  at  me  like  a 
turtle?  Durden  says  Wild-Goose  looks  fine. 
There's  gold  up  there  —  heaps  of  it." 

"Let  it  stay  there,  then.  I  ain't  going.  That's 
flat."  Holt  turned  to  adjust  the  damper  of  his 
stove. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  wouldn't  say  that," 
drawled  Bill  insolently. 

The  man  at  the  stove  caught  the  change  in 
tone  and  turned  quickly.  He  was  too  late.  Macy 
had  thrown  himself  forward  and  the  weight  of 
his  body  flung  Holt  against  the  wall.  Before 
the  miner  could  recover,  the  other  two  men 
were  upon  him.  They  bore  him  to  the  floor  and 
in  spite  of  his  struggles  tied  him  hand  and  foot. 

Big  Bill  rose  and  looked  down  derisively  at 
his  prisoner.  "Better  change  your  mind  and 

100 


The  Yukon  Trail 


go  with  us,  Holt.  We'll  spend  a  quiet  month  up 
at  the  headquarters  of  Wild-Goose.  Say  you  '11 
come  along." 

"You'll  go  to  prison  for  this,  Bill  Macy." 
"Guess  again,  Gid,  and  mebbe  you'll  get  it 
right  this  time."  Macy  turned  to  his  compan 
ions.  "George,  you  bring  up  the  horses.  Dud, 
see  if  that  bread  is  cooked.  Might  as  well 
take  it  along  with  us  —  save  us  from  baking  to 


morrow." 


"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?"  de 
manded  Holt. 

"I  reckon  you  need  a  church  to  fall  on  you 
before  you  can  take  a  hint.  Did  n't  I  mention 
Wild-Goose  Creek  three  or  four  times?"  jeered 
his  captor. 

"Every  step  you  take  will  be  one  toward  the 
penitentiary.  Get  that  into  your  cocoanut,"  the 
old  miner  retorted  sharply. 

"Nothing  to  that  idee,  Gid." 

"I'll  scream  when  you  take  me  out." 

"Go  to  it.  Then  we'll  gag  you." 

Holt  made  no  further  protest.  He  was  furious, 
but  at  present  quite  helpless.  However  it  went 
against  the  grain,  he  might  as  well  give  in  until 
rebellion  would  do  some  good. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  party  was  moving  si 
lently  along  the  trail  that  led  to  the  hills.  The 
pack-horses  went  first,  in  charge  of  George  Hol- 

101 


The  Yukon  Trail 

way.  The  prisoner  walked  next,  his  hands  tied 
behind  him.  Big  Bill  followed,  and  the  man  he 
had  called  Dud  brought  up  the  rear. 

They  wound  up  a  rising  valley,  entering  from 
it  a  canon  with  precipitous  walls  that  shut  out 
the  late  sun.  It  was  by  this  time  past  eleven 
o'clock  and  dusk  was  gathering  closer.  The 
winding  trail  ran  parallel  with  the  creek,  some 
times  through  thickets  of  young  fir  and  some 
times  across  boulder  beds  that  made  traveling 
difficult  and  slow.  They  went  in  single  file,  each 
of  them  with  a  swarm  of  mosquitoes  about  his 
head. 

Macy  had  released  the  hands  of  his  prisoner 
so  that  he  might  have  a  chance  to  fight  the  sing 
ing  pests,  but  he  kept  a  wary  eye  upon  him  and 
never  let  him  move  more  than  a  few  feet  from 
him.  The  trail  grew  steeper  as  it  neared  the 
head  of  the  canon  till  at  last  it  climbed  the  left 
wall  and  emerged  from  the  gulch  to  an  uneven 
mesa. 

The  leader  of  the  party  looked  at  his  watch. 
"Past  midnight.  We'll  camp  here,  George,  and 
see  if  we  can't  get  rid  of  the  'skeeters." 

They  built  smudge  fires  of  green  wood  and 
on  the  lee  side  of  these  another  one  of  dry 
sticks.  Dud  made  coffee  upon  this  and  cooked 
bacon  to  eat  with  the  fresh  bread  they  had  taken 
from  the  oven  of  Holt.  While  George  chopped 

102 


The  Yukon  Trail 

wood  for  the  fires  and  boughs  of  small  firs  for 
bedding,  Big  Bill  sat  with  a  rifle  across  his  knees 
just  back  of  the  prisoner. 

"  Gid  's  a  shifty  old  cuss,  and  I  ain't  taking  any 
chances,"  he  explained  aloud  to  Dud. 

Holt  was  beginning  to  take  the  outrage  phil 
osophically.  He  sat  close  to  a  smudge  and 
smoked  his  pipe. 

"I  would  n't  either  if  I  were  you.  Sometime 
when  you  ain't  watching,  I'm  liable  to  grab 
that  gun  and  shoot  a  hole  in  the  place  where 
your  brains  would  be  if  you  had  any,"  coun 
tered  the  old  man. 

He  slept  peacefully  while  they  took  turns 
watching  him.  Just  now  there  would  be  no 
chance  to  escape,  but  in  a  few  days  they  would 
become  careless.  The  habit  of  feeling  that  they 
had  him  securely  would  grow  upon  them.  Then, 
reasoned  Holt,  his  opportunity  would  come. 
One  of  the  guards  would  take  a  chance.  Per 
haps  he  might  even  fall  asleep  on  duty.  It  was 
not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  in  the  next  week 
or  two  he  would  not  catch  them  napping  once 
for  a  short  ten  seconds. 

There  was,  of  course,  just  the  possibility  that 
they  intended  to  murder  him,  but  Holt  could 
not  associate  Selfridge  with  anything  so  lawless. 
The  man  was  too  soft  of  fiber  to  carry  through 
such  a  programme,  and  as  yet  there  was  need 

103 


The  Yukon  Trail 

of  nothing  so  drastic.  No,  this  little  kidnapping 
expedition  would  not  run  to  murder.  He  would 
be  set  free  in  a  few  weeks,  and  if  he  told  the  true 
story  of  where  he  had  been  his  foes  would  spread 
the  report  that  he  was  insane  in  his  hatred  of 
Macdonald  and  imagined  all  sorts  of  persecu 
tions. 

They  followed  Wild-Goose  Creek  all  next 
day,  getting  always  closer  to  its  headwaters 
near  the  divide.  On  the  third  day  they  crossed 
to  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  and  descended  into 
a  little  mountain  park.  They  were  in  a  country 
where  prospectors  never  came,  one  deserted 
even  by  trappers  at  this  season  of  the  year. 

The  country  was  so  much  a  primeval  wilder 
ness  that  a  big  bull  moose  stalked  almost  upon 
their  camp  before  discovering  the  presence  of  a 
strange  biped.  Big  Bill  snatched  up  a  rifle  and 
took  a  shot  which  sent  the  intruder  scamper 
ing. 

From  somewhere  in  the  distance  came  a  faint 
sound. 

"What  was  that?"  asked  George. 

"Sounded  like  a  shot.  Mebbe  it  was  an  echo," 
returned  Dud. 

"Came  too  late  for  an  echo,"  Big  Bill  said. 

Again  faintly  from  some  far  corner  of  the 
basin  the  sound  drifted.  It  was  like  the  pop  of 
a  scarcely  heard  firecracker. 

104 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  men  looked  at  one  another  and  at  their 
prisoner.  Their  eyes  consulted  once  more. 

"Think  we  better  break  camp  and  drift?" 
asked  Dud. 

"No.  We're  in  a  little  draw  here  —  as  good  a 
hiding-place  as  we'd  be  likely  to  find.  Drive 
the  horses  into  the  brush,  George.  We'll  sit 
tight." 

"Got  the  criminals  guessing,"  Holt  contrib 
uted  maliciously.  "You  lads  want  to  take  the 
hide  offen  Macy  if  he  lands  you  in  the  pen 
through  that  fool  shot  of  his.  Wonder  if  I  had  n't 
better  yell." 

"I'll  stop  your  clock  right  then  if  you  do," 
threatened  Big  Bill  with  a  scowl. 

Dud  had  been  busy  stamping  out  the  camp- 
fire  while  Hoi  way  was  driving  the  horses  into 
the  brush. 

"Mebbe  you  had  better  get  the  camp  things 
behind  them  big  rocks,"  Macy  conceded. 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  came  the  crack  of  a 
revolver  almost  at  the  entrance  to  the  draw. 

One  of  the  men  swore  softly.  The  gimlet 
eyes  of  the  old  miner  fastened  on  the  spot  where 
in  another  moment  his  hoped-for  rescuers  would 
appear. 

A  man  staggered  drunkenly  into  view.  He 
reeled  halfway  across  the  mouth  of  the  draw 
and  stopped.  His  eyes,  questing  dully,  fell  upon 

105 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  camp.  He  stared,  as  if  doubtful  whether 
they  had  played  him  false,  then  lurched  toward 
the  waiting  group. 

"Lost,  and  all  in,"  Holway  said  in  a  whisper 
to  Dud. 

The  other  man  nodded.  Neither  of  them 
made  a  move  toward  the  stranger,  who  stopped 
in  front  of  their  camp  and  looked  with  glazed 
eyes  from  one  to  another.  His  face  was  drawn 
and  haggard  and  lined.  Extreme  exhaustion 
showed  in  every  movement.  He  babbled  inco 
herently. 

"  Seven — eighteen  —  ninety-nine.  'Atta-boy," 
he  said  thickly. 

"Don't  you  see  he's  starving  and  out  of  his 
head?"  snapped  Holt  brusquely.  "Get  him 
grub,  pronto." 

The  old  man  rose  and  moved  toward  the  suf 
fering  man.  "Come,  pard.  Tha'  's  all  right. 
Sit  dowrn  right  here  and  go  to  it,  as  the  old  sayin' 
is."  He  led  the  man  to  a  place  beside  Big  Bill 
and  made  him  sit  down.  "Better  light  a  fire, 
boys,  and  get  some  coffee  on.  Don't  give  him 
too  much  solid  grub  at  first." 

The  famished  man  ate  what  was  given  him 
and  clamored  for  more. 

"Coming  up  soon,  pardner,"  Holt  told  him 
soothingly.  "Now  tell  us  howcome  you  to  get 
lost." 

106 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  man  nodded  gravely.  "Hit  that  line 
low,  Gord.  Hit  'er  low.  Only  three  yards  to 
gain." 

"Plumb  bughouse,"  commented  Dud,  chew 
ing  tobacco  stolidly. 

"Out  of  his  head  —  that's  all.  He'll  be  right 
enough  after  he's  fed  up  and  had  a  good  sleep. 
But  right  now  he's  sure  some  Exhibit  A.  Look 
at  the  bones  sticking  through  his  cheeks,"  Big 
Bill  commented. 

"Come,  Old-Timer.  Get  down  in  your  collar 
to  it.  Once  more  now.  Don't  lie  down  on  the 
job.  All  together  now."  The  stranger  clucked 
to  an  imaginary  horse  and  made  a  motion  of 
lifting  with  his  hands. 

"Looks  like  his  hawss  bogged  down  in  Fifty- 
Mile  Swamp,"  suggested  Holt. 

"Looks  like,"  agreed  Dud. 

The  old  miner  said  no  more.  But  his  eyes 
narrowed  to  shining  slits.  If  this  man  had  come 
through  Fifty-Mile  Swamp  he  must  have  started 
from  the  river.  That  probably  meant  that  he 
had  come  from  Kusiak.  He  was  a  young  man, 
talking  the  jargon  of  a  college  football  player. 
Without  doubt  he  was,  in  the  old  phrasing  of 
the  North,  a  chechako.  His  clothing,  though 
much  soiled  and  torn,  had  been  good.  His  voice 
held  the  inflections  of  the  cultured  world. 

Gideon  Holt's  sly  brain  moved  keenly  to  the 
107 


The  Yukon  Trail 

possibility  that  he  could  put  a  name  to  this 
human  derelict  they  had  picked  up.  He  began 
to  see  it  as  more  than  a  possibility,  as  even  a 
probability,  at  least  as  a  fifty-fifty  chance.  A 
sardonic  grin  hovered  about  the  corners  of  his 
grim  mouth.  It  would  be  a  strange  freak  of 
irony  if  Wally  Selfridge,  to  prevent  a  meeting 
between  him  and  the  Government  land  agent, 
had  sent  him  a  hundred  miles  into  the  wilderness 
to  save  the  life  of  Gordon  Elliot  and  so  had 
brought  about  the  meeting  that  otherwise  would 
never  have  taken  place. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   RAH-RAH    BOY   FUNCTIONS 

BIG  BILL  grumbled  a  good  deal  at  the  addi 
tion  to  the  party.  It  would  be  decidedly  awk 
ward  if  this  stranger  should  become  rational  and 
understand  the  status  of  the  camp  he  had  joined. 
The  word  of  old  Holt  alone  might  be  negligible, 
but  supported  by  that  of  a  disinterested  party 
it  would  be  a  very  different  matter.  Still,  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  They  would  have  to  take 
care  of  the  man  until  he  was  able  to  travel.  Per 
haps  he  would  go  in  with  them  as  an  additional 
guard.  At  the  worst  Big  Bill  could  give  him  a 
letter  to  Selfridge  explaining  things  and  so  pass 
the  buck  to  that  gentleman. 

Gid  Holt  had,  with  the  tacit  consent  of  his 
guards,  appointed  himself  as  a  sort  of  nurse  to 
the  stranger.  He  lit  a  smudge  fire  to  the  wind 
ward  side  of  him,  fed  him  small  quantities  of 
food  at  intervals,  and  arranged  a  sleeping-place 
for  him  with  mosquito  netting  for  protection. 

Early  in  the  evening  the  sick  man  fell  into  a 
sound  sleep  from  which  he  did  not  awake  until 
morning.  George  was  away  looking  after  the 
pack-horses,  Dud  was  cooking  breakfast,  and 

109 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Big  Bill,  his  rifle  close  at  hand,  was  chopping 
young  firs  fifty  feet  back  of  the  camp.  The  cook 
also  had  a  gun,  loaded  with  buckshot,  lying  on 
a  box  beside  him,  so  that  they  were  taking  no 
chances  with  their  prisoner.  He  could  not  have 
covered  twenty  yards  without  being  raked  by  a 
cross-fire. 

The  old  miner  turned  from  rearranging  the 
boughs  of  green  fir  on  the  smudge  to  see  that  his 
patient  was  awake  and  his  mind  normal.  The 
quiet,  steady  eyes  resting  upon  him  told  that 
the  delirium  had  passed. 

"Pretty  nearly  all  in,  wasn't  I?"  the  young 
man  said. 

The  answer  of  Gid  Holt  was  an  odd  one. 
:<  Yep.  Seven  —  eleven  —  fifteen.  Take  'er  easy, 
old  man,"  he  said  in  his  shrill,  high  voice  as  he 
moved  toward  the  man  in  the  blankets.  Then, 
in  a  low  tone,  while  he  pretended  to  arrange  the 
bedding  over  the  stranger,  he  asked  a  quick 
question. 

"Are  you  Elliot?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  tell  them.  Talk  football  lingo  as  if 
you  was  still  out  of  your  haid."  Holt  turned  and 
called  to  Dud.  "Says  he  wants  some  breakfast." 

"On  the  way,"  the  cook  answered. 

Holt  seemed  to  be  soothing  the  delirious  man. 
What  he  really  said  was  this.  "Selfridge  has 

110 


The  Yukon  Trail 

arranged  a  plant  for  you  at  Kamatlah.  The 
camp  has  been  turned  inside  out  to  fool  you. 
They've  brought  me  here  a  prisoner  so  as  to 
keep  me  from  telling  you  the  truth.  Pst!  Tune 
up  now." 

Big  Bill  had  put  down  his  axe  and  was  ap 
proaching.  He  was  not  exactly  suspicious,  but 
he  did  not  believe  in  taking  unnecessary  chances. 

"I  tell  you  I'm  out  of  training.  Played  the 
last  game,  have  n't  we?  Come  through  with  a 
square  meal,  you  four-flusher,"  demanded  El 
liot  in  a  querulous  voice.  He  turned  to  Macy. 
"Look  here,  Cap.  Haven't  I  played  the  game 
all  fall?  Don't  I  get  what  I  want  now  we're 
through?" 

The  voice  of  the  young  man  was  excited.  His 
eyes  had  lost  their  quiet  steadiness  and  roved 
restlessly  to  and  fro.  If  Big  Bill  had  held  any 
doubts  one  glance  dissipated  them. 

"  Sure  you  do.  Hustle  over  and  help  Dud  with 
the  breakfast,  Holt.  I  '11  look  out  for  our  friend." 

Elliot  and  Holt  found  no  more  chance  to  talk 
together  that  morning.  Sometimes  the  young 
Government  official  lay  staring  straight  in  front 
of  him.  Sometimes  he  appeared  to  doze.  Again 
he  would  talk  in  the  disjointed  way  of  one  not 
clear  in  the  head. 

An  opportunity  came  in  the  afternoon  for  a 
moment. 

Ill 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Keep  your  eyes  skinned  for  a  chance  to  lay 
out  the  guard  to-night  and  get  his  gun,"  Holt 
said  quickly. 

Gordon  nodded.  "I  don't  know  that  I've  got 
to  do  everything  just  as  you  say,"  he  com 
plained  aloud  for  the  benefit  of  George,  who  was 
passing  on  his  way  to  the  place  where  the  horses 
were  hobbled. 

"Now — now!  There  ain't  nobody  trying  to 
boss  you,"  Holt  explained  in  a  patient  voice. 

"They'd  better  not,"  snapped  the  invalid. 

"Some  scrapper  —  that  kid,"  said  the  horse 
wrangler  with  a  grin. 

Macy  took  the  first  watch  that  night.  He 
turned  in  at  two  after  he  had  roused  Dud  to 
take  his  place.  The  cook  had  been  on  duty 
about  an  hour  when  Elliot  kicked  Holt,  who  was 
sleeping  beside  him,  to  make  sure  that  he  was 
ready.  The  old  man  answered  the  kick  with 
another. 

Presently  Gordon  got  up,  yawned,  and  strolled 
toward  the  edge  of  the  camp. 

"Don't  go  and  get  lost,  young  fellow,"  cau 
tioned  Dud. 

Gordon,  on  his  way  back,  passed  behind  the 
guard,  who  was  sitting  tailor  fashion  before  a 
smudge  with  a  muley  shotgun  across  his  knees. 

"This  ain't  no  country  for  chechakoes  to  be 
wandering  around  without  a  keeper,"  the  cook 

112 


The  Yukon  Trail 

continued.  "Looks  like  your  folks  would  have 
better  sense  than  to  let  their  rah-rah  boy  — " 

He  got  no  farther.  Elliot  dropped  to  one  knee 
and  his  strong  fingers  closed  on  the  gullet  of  the 
man  so  tightly  that  not  even  a  groan  could  es 
cape  him.  His  feet  thrashed  to  and  fro  as  he 
struggled,  but  he  could  not  shake  off  the  grip 
that  was  strangling  him.  The  old  miner,  wait 
ing  with  every  muscle  ready  and  every  nerve 
under  tension,  flung  aside  his  blanket  and  hurled 
himself  at  the  guard.  It  took  him  less  time  than 
it  takes  to  tell  to  wrest  the  gun  from  the  cook. 

He  got  to  his  feet  just  as  Big  Bill,  his  eyes  and 
brain  still  fogged  with  sleep,  sat  up  and  began 
to  take  notice  of  the  disturbance. 

"Don't  move,"  warned  Holt  sharply.  "Bet 
ter  throw  your  hands  up.  You  reach  for  the 
stars,  too,  Holway.  No  monkey  business,  do 
you  hear?  I'd  as  lief  blow  a  hole  through  you 
as  not." 

Big  Bill  turned  bitterly  upon  Elliot.  "So  you 
were  faking  all  the  time,  young  fellow.  We  save 
your  life  and  you  round  on  us.  You're  a  pretty 
slick  proposition  as  a  double-crosser." 

"And  that  ain't  all,"  chirped  up  Holt  blithely. 
"Let  me  introduce  our  friend  to  you,  Mr.  Big 
Bill  Macy.  This  is  Gordon  Elliot,  the  land  agent 
appointed  to  look  over  the  Kamatlah  claims. 
Self  ridge  gave  you  lads  this  penitentiary  job 

113 


The  Yukon  Trail 

so  as  I  would  n't  meet  Elliot  when  he  reached 
the  camp.  If  he  had  n't  been  so  darned  anxious 
about  it,  our  young  friend  would  have  died  here 
on  the  divide.  But  Mr.  Selfridge  kindly  out 
fitted  a  party  and  sent  us  a  hundred  miles  into 
the  hills  to  rescue  the  perishing,  as  the  old  say  in' 
goes.  Consequence  is,  Elliot  and  me  meet  up 
and  have  that  nice  confidential  talk  after  all. 
The  ways  of  Providence  is  strange,  as  you  might 
say,  Mr.  Macy." 

"Your  trick,"  conceded  Big  Bill  sullenly. 
"Now  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  us?" 

"Not  a  thing  —  going  to  leave  you  right  here 
to  prospect  Wild-Goose  Creek,"  answered  Holt 
blandly.  "Durden  says  there's  gold  up  here  — 
heaps  of  it." 

Bill  Macy  condemned  Durden  in  language 
profane  and  energetic.  He  did  n't  stop  at  Dur 
den.  Holt  came  in  for  a  share  of  it,  also  Elliot 
and  Selfridge. 

The  old  miner  grinned  at  him.  "You'll  feel 
better  now  you've  got  that  out  of  your  system. 
But  don't  stop  there  if  you'd  like  to  say  a  few 
more  well-chosen  words.  We  got  time  a-plenty." 

"Cut  it  out,  Bill.  That  line  o'  talk  don't  buy 
you  anything,"  said  Holway  curtly.  "What's 
the  use  of  beefing?" 

"Now  you're  shouting,  my  friend,"  agreed 
old  Gideon.  "I  guess,  Elliot,  you  can  loosen 

114 


The  Yukon  Trail 

up  on  the  chef's  throat  awhile.  He's  had  per 
suading  enough,  don't  you  reckon?  I'll  sit  here 
and  sorter  keep  the  boys  company  while  you 
cut  the  pack-ropes  and  bring  'em  here.  But  first 
I  'd  step  in  and  unload  all  the  hardware  they  're 
packing.  If  you  don't  one  of  them  is  likely  to 
get  anxious.  I'd  hate  to  see  any  of  them  com 
mit  suicide  with  none  of  their  friends  here  to 
say,  'Don't  he  look  natural?' 

Elliot  brought  back  the  pack-ropes  and  cut 
them  into  suitable  lengths.  Holt's  monologue 
rambled  on.  He  was  garrulous  and  affable. 
Not  for  a  long  time  had  he  enjoyed  himself  so 
much. 

"Better  begin  with  Chief  Big  Bill,"  he  sug 
gested.  "No,  I  wouldn't  make  that  move  if  I 
was  you,  Mr.  Macy.  This  old  gun  is  liable  to 
go  off  accidental  in  your  direction  and  she 
spatters  like  hell.  That's  the  idee.  Be  reason 
able.  Not  that  I  give  a  hoot,  but  a  man  had  n't 
ought  to  let  his  impulses  run  away  with  his 
judgment,  as  the  old  sayin'  is." 

Gordon  tied  the  hands  of  Big  Bill  behind  him, 
then  roped  his  feet  together,  after  which  he  did 
the  same  for  Holway.  The  old  miner  superin 
tended  the  job  and  was  not  satisfied  till  he  had 
added  a  few  extra  knots  on  his  own  behalf. 

"That'll  hold  them  for  awhile,  I  shouldn't 
wonder.  Now  if  you'll  just  cover  friend  chef 

115 


The  Yukon  Trail 

with  this  sa wed-off  gat,  Elliot,  I'll  throw  the 
diamond  hitch  over  what  supplies  we'll  need  to 
get  back  to  Kamatlah.  I'll  take  one  bronch 
and  leave  the  other  to  the  convicts,'1  said  Holt 
cheerfully. 

"Forget  that  convict  stuff,"  growled  Macy. 
"With  Macdonald  back  of  us  and  the  Gutten- 
childs  back  of  him,  you'll  have  a  hectic  time 
getting  anything  on  us." 

"That  might  be  true  if  these  folks  were  back 
of  you.  But  are  they?  Course  I  ain't  any  Sher 
lock  Holmes,  but  it  don't  look  to  me  like  they'd 
play  any  such  fool  system  as  this." 

Big  Bill  opened  his  mouth  to  answer  —  and 
said  nothing.  He  had  caught  a  look  flashed  at 
him  by  Holway,  a  look  that  warned  him  he  was 
talking  too  much. 

After  Holt  had  packed  one  of  the  animals  he 
turned  to  Elliot. 

"I  reckon  we're  ready." 

Under  orders  from  Elliot,  Dud  fixed  up  the 
smudges  and  arranged  the  mosquito  netting 
over  the  bound  men  so  as  to  give  them  all  the 
protection  possible. 

"We're  going  to  take  Dud  with  us  for  a  part 
of  the  trip.  We'll  send  him  back  to  you  later 
in  the  day.  You  '11  have  to  fast  till  he  gets  back, 
but  outside  of  that  you'll  do  very  well  if  you 
don't  roll  around  trying  to  get  loose.  Do  that, 

116 


The  Yukon  Trail 

and  you'll  jar  loose  the  mosquito  netting.  You 
know  what  that  means,"  explained  Gordon. 

"It  ain't  likely  any  grizzlies  will  come  pokin' 
their  noses  into  camp.  But  you  never  can  tell. 
Any  last  words  you  want  sent  to  relatives?" 
asked  Gideon  Holt. 

The  last  words  they  heard  from  Big  Bill  as 
they  moved  down  the  draw  were  sulphuric. 

"Macy  he  ain't  wearin'  any  W.  J.  Bryan  smile 
this  glad  mo'nin',"  mused  old  Holt  aloud. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  by  the 
watch  when  they  started.  About  nine  they  threw 
off  for  breakfast.  By  this  time  they  were  just 
across  the  divide  and  were  ready  to  take  the 
down  trail. 

"I  think  we'll  let  Dud  go  now,"  Elliot  told 
his  partner  in  the  adventure. 

"  Better  hold  him  till  afternoon.  Then  they 
can't  possibly  reach  us  till  we  get  to  Kamatlah." 

"What  does  it  matter  if  they  do?  We  have 
both  rifles  and  have  left  them  only  one  re 
volver.  Besides,  I  don't  like  to  leave  two  bound 
men  alone  in  so  wild  a  district  for  any  great 
time.  No,  we'll  start  Dud  on  the  back  trail. 
That  grizzly  you  promised  Big  Bill  might  really 
turn  up." 

The  two  men  struck  the  headwaters  of  Wild- 
Goose  Creek  about  noon  and  followed  the  stream 
down.]  They  traveled  steadily  without  haste. 

117 


The  Yukon  Trail 

So  long  as  they  kept  a  good  lookout  there  was 
nothing  to  be  feared  from  the  men  they  had  left 
behind.  They  had  both  a  long  start  and  the 
advantage  of  weapons. 

If  Elliot  had  advertised  for  a  year  he  could 
not  have  found  a  man  who  knew  more  of  Colby 
Macdonald's  past  than  Gideon  Holt.  The  old 
man  had  mushed  on  the  trail  with  him  in  the 
Klondike  days.  He  had  worked  a  claim  on 
Frenchman  Creek  with  him  and  had  by  sharp 
practice  —  so  at  least  he  had  come  to  believe 
—  been  la  wed  out  of  his  rights  by  the  shrewd 
Scotchman.  For  seventeen  years  he  had  nursed 
a  grudge  against  Macdonald,  and  he  was  never 
tired  of  talking  about  him.  He  knew  many 
doubtful  things  charged  to  the  account  of  the 
big  man  as  he  had  blazed  a  way  to  success  over 
the  failures  of  less  fortunate  people.  One  story 
in  particular  interested  Gordon.  It  came  out 
the  second  day,  as  they  were  getting  down  into 
the  foothills. 

"There  was  Farrell  O'Neill.  He  was  a  good 
fellow,  Farrell  was,  but  he  had  just  one  weak 
ness.  There  was  times  when  he  liked  the  bottle 
too  well.  He'd  let  it  alone  for  months  and  then 
just  lap  the  stuff  up.  It  was  the  time  of  the 
stampede  to  Bonanza  Creek.  Men  are  just  like 
sheep.  They  wear  wool  on  their  backs  like  them 
and  have  their  habits.  You  can  start  'em  any 

118 


The  Yukon  Trail 

fool  way  for  no  cause  a-tall.  Don't  you  know  it? 
Well,  the  news  of  the  strike  on  Bonanza  reached 
Dawson  and  we  all  burnt  up  the  trail  to  get  to 
the  new  ground  first.  O'Neill  was  one  of  the 
first.  He  got  in  about  twenty  below  discovery, 
if  I  remember.  Mac  was  n't  in  Dawson,  but 
he  got  there  next  mo'nin'  and  heard  the  news. 
He  lit  out  for  Bonanza  pronto'9 

The  old  miner  stopped,  took  a  chew  of  to 
bacco,  and  looked  down  into  the  valley  far  be 
low  where  Kamatlah  could  just  be  seen,  a  little 
huddle  of  huts. 

"Well?"  asked  Elliot.  It  was  occasionally 
necessary  to  prompt  Holt  when  he  paused  for 
his  dramatic  effects.  He  would  pretend  to  for 
get  that  he  was  telling  a  yarn  which  might  in 
terest  his  hearer. 

"Mac  draps  in  and  joins  O'Neill  at  night. 
They  knew  each  other,  y'  understand,  so  o' 
course  it  was  natural  Mac  would  put  up  at 
his  camp.  O'Neill  had  a  partner  and  they  had 
located  together.  Fellow  named  Strong." 

"Not  Hanford  Strong,  a  little,  heavy-set 
man  somewhere  around  fifty?"  Gordon  asked 
quickly. 

"You've  tagged  the  right  man.   Know  him?" 

"I've  met  him." 

"Well,  I  never  heard  anything  against  Han 
Strong.  Anyway,  he  was  off  that  night  packing 

119 


The  Yukon  Trail 

grub  up  while  Farrell  held  down  the  claim. 
Mac  had  a  jug  of  booze  with  him.  He  got  Farrell 
tanked  up.  You  know  Mac  —  how  he  can  put 
it  across  when  he's  a  mind  to.  He's  a  forceful 
devil,  and  he  can  be  a  mighty  likable  one." 

Elliot  nodded  understanding.  "He's  always 
the  head  of  the  table  no  matter  where  he  sits. 
And  there  is  something  wonderfully  attractive 
about  him." 

"Sure  there  is.  But  when  he  is  friendliest  you 
want  to  watch  out  he  don't  slip  an  upper  cut  at 
you  that'll  put  you  out  of  biz.  He  done  that  to 
Farrell  —  and  done  it  a-plenty." 

"How?" 

"O'Neill  got  mellowed  up  till  he  thought  Mac 
was  his  best  friend.  He  was  ready  to  eat  out  of 
his  hand.  So  Mac  works  him  up  to  sign  a  con 
tract  —  before  witnesses  too;  trust  Mac  for  that 
—  exchanging  his  half -interest  in  the  claim  for 
five  hundred  dollars  in  cash  and  Mac's  no-'count 
lease  on  Frenchman  Creek.  Inside  of  a  week 
Mac  and  Strong  struck  a  big  pay  streak.  They 
took  over  two  hundred  thousand  from  the  spring 
clean-up." 

"It  was  nothing  better  than  robbery." 

"Call  it  what  you  want  to.  Anyhow,  it  stuck. 
O'Neill  kicked,  and  that's  all  the  good  it  did 
him.  He  consulted  lawyers  at  Dawson.  Fi 
nally  he  got  so  discouraged  that  he  plumb  went 

120 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  pieces  —  got  on  a  long  bat  and  stayed  there 
till  his  money  ran  out.  Then  one  bitter  night 
he  starts  up  to  Bonanza  to  have  it  out  with  Mac. 
The  mercury  was  so  low  it  had  run  into  the 
ground  a  foot.  Farrell  slept  in  a  deserted  cabin 
without  a  fire  and  not  enough  bedding.  He 
caught  pneumony.  By  the  time  he  reached  the 
claim  he  was  a  mighty  sick  man.  Next  week  he 
died.  That's  all  Mac  done  to  O'Neill.  Not  a 
thing  that  was  n't  legal  either." 

Gordon  thought  of  Sheba  O'Neill  as  she  sat 
listening  to  the  tales  of  Macdonald  in  Diane's 
parlor  and  his  gorge  rose  at  the  man. 

"But  Mac  had  fell  on  his  feet  all  right,"  con 
tinued  Holt.  "He  got  his  start  off  that  claim. 
Now  he's  a  millionaire  two  or  three  times  over, 
I  reckon." 

They  reached  the  outskirts  of  Kamatlah 
about  noon  of  the  third  day.  Gordon  left  Holt 
at  his  cabin  after  they  had  eaten  and  went  in 
alone  to  look  the  ground  over.  He  met  Selfridge 
at  the  post-office.  That  gentleman  was  effusive 
in  his  greeting. 

"This  is  a  pleasant  surprise,  Mr.  Elliot. 
When  did  you  get  in?  Had  no  idea  you  were 
coming  or  I'd  have  asked  you  for  the  pleasure 
of  your  company.  I'm  down  on  business,  of 
course.  No  need  to  tell  you  that  —  nobody 
would  come  to  this  hole  for  any  other  reason. 

121 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Rowland  and  his  wife  are  the  only  possible  peo 
ple  here.  Hope  you  play  bridge." 

Elliot  played  it,  but  he  did  not  say  so.  It  was 
his  business  not  to  be  drawn  into  entangling 
alliances. 

"Of  course  you'll  put  up  with  me  as  my 
guest,"  Selfridge  flowed  on.  "I've  wanted 
to  meet  you  again  ever  since  we  were  on  the 
Hannah  together." 

This  was  a  little  too  cheeky.  Gordon  recalled 
with  some  amusement  how  this  tubby  little  man 
and  his  friends  had  ignored  the  existence  of 
Sheba  O'Neill  and  himself  for  several  days. 

He  answered  genially.  "Pleasant  time  we 
had  on  the  river,  did  n't  we?  Thanks  awfully 
for  your  invitation,  but  I've  already  made  ar 
rangements  for  putting  up." 

" Where?  There's  no  decent  place  in  camp 
except  at  Howland's.  He  keeps  open  house  for 
our  friends." 

"I  could  n't  think  of  troubling  him,"  coun 
tered  Gordon. 

"No  trouble  at  all.  We'll  send  for  your 
things.  Where  are  they?" 

The  land  agent  let  him  have  it  right  between 
the  eyes.  "At  Gideon  Holt's.  I'm  staying  with 
him  on  his  claim." 

Wally  had  struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigar 
ette,  but  this  simple  statement  petrified  him. 


The  Yukon  Trail 

His  jaw  dropped  and  his  eyes  bulged.  Not  till 
the  flame  burned  his  fingers  did  he  come  to 
life. 

"Did  you  say  you  were  staying  —  with  Gid 
Holt?"  he  floundered  weakly. 

Gordon  noticed  that  his  florid  face  had  lost 
its  color.  The  jaunty  cock-sureness  of  the  man 
had  flickered  out  like  the  flame  of  the  charred 
match. 

"Yes.  He  offered  to  board  me,"  answered  the 
young  man  blandly. 

"But —  I  did  n't  know  he  was  here  —  seems 
to  me  I  had  heard  —  somewhere  —  that  he  was 
away." 

"He  was   away.    But  he  has  come  back." 
Gordon  gave  the  information  without  even  a 
flash  of  mirth  in  his  steady  eyes. 
.     Selfridge  could  not  quite  let  the  subject  alone. 
"Seems  to  me  I  heard  he  went  prospecting." 

"He  did.  Up  Wild-Goose  Creek,  with  Big 
Bill  Macy  and  two  other  men.  But  I  asked  him 
to  come  back  with  me  —  and  he  did." 

Feebly  Wally  groped  for  the  clue  without  find 
ing  it.  Had  Big  Bill  sold  him  out?  And  how 
had  Elliot  got  into  touch  with  him? 

"Just  so,  Mr.  Elliot.  But  really,  you  know, 
Rowland  can  make  you  a  great  deal  more  com 
fortable  than  Holt.  His  wife  is  a  famous  cook. 
I'll  have  a  man  go  get  your  traps." 

123 


The  Yukon  Trail 

It's  very  good  of  you,  but  I  think  I  won't 


move." 


"Oh,  but  you  must.  Holt's  nutty  —  nobody 
at  home,  you  know.  Everybody  knows  that." 

"Is  he?  The  old  man  struck  me  as  being  re 
markably  clear-headed.  By  the  way,  I  want  to 
thank  you  for  sending  a  relief  party  out  to  find 
me,  Mr.  Selfridge.  Except  for  your  help  I  would 
have  died  in  the  hills." 

This  was  another  facer  for  Wally.  What  the 
devil  did  the  fellow  mean?  The  deuce  of  it  was 
that  he  knew  all  the  facts  and  Wally  did  not. 
He  talked  as  if  he  meant  it,  but  behind  those 
cool  eyes  there  might  lie  either  mockery  or 
irony.  One  thing  alone  stood  out  to  Selfridge 
like  a  sore  thumb.  His  plans  had  come  tum 
bling  down  like  a  house  of  cards.  Either  Big 
Bill  had  blundered  amazingly,  or  he  had  played 
traitor.  In  either  case  Wally  could  guess  pretty 
shrewdly  whose  hide  Macdonald  would  tan  for 
the  failure.  The  chief  wanted  results.  He  did 
not  ask  of  his  subordinates  how  they  got  them. 
And  this  was  the  second  time  in  succession  that 
Selfridge  had  come  to  grief. 


CHAPTER  XI 

GORDON   INVITES   HIMSELF   TO   DINNER  —  AND 
DOES   NOT   ENJOY   IT 

BIG  BILL  and  his  companions  reached  Kamat- 
lah  early  next  day.  They  reported  at  once  to 
Selfridge.  It  had  been  the  intention  of  Wally 
to  vent  upon  them  the  bad  temper  that  had 
been  gathering  ever  since  his  talk  with  Elliot. 
But  his  first  sarcastic  question  drew  such  a  snarl 
of  anger  that  he  reconsidered.  The  men  were 
both  sullen  and  furious.  They  let  him  know 
roundly  that  if  Holt  made  them  any  trouble 
through  the  courts,  they  would  tell  all  they 
knew. 

The  little  man  became  alarmed.  Instead  of 
reproaches  he  gave  them  soft  words  and  prom 
ises.  The  company  would  see  them  through. 
It  would  protect  them  against  criminal  proced 
ure.  But  above  all  they  must  stand  pat  in 
denial.  A  conviction  would  be  impossible  even 
if  the  State's  attorney  filed  an  indictment  against 
them.  Meanwhile  they  would  remain  on  the 
company  pay-roll. 

Gordon  Elliot  was  a  trained  investigator. 
Even  without  Holt  at  his  side  he  would  probably 
have  unearthed  the  truth  about  the  Kamatlah 

125 


The  Yukon  Trail 

situation.  But  with  the  little  miner  by  his  side 
to  tell  him  the  facts,  he  found  his  task  an  easy 
one. 

Selfridge  followed  orders  and  let  him  talk 
with  the  men  freely.  All  of  them  had  been  drilled 
till  they  knew  their  story  like  parrots.  They 
were  suspicious  of  the  approaches  of  Elliot,  but 
they  had  been  warned  that  they  must  appear  to 
talk  candidly.  The  result  was  that  some  talked 
too  much  and  some  not  enough.  They  contra 
dicted  themselves  and  one  another.  They  let 
slip  admissions  under  skillful  examination  that 
could  be  explained  on  no  other  basis  than  that 
of  company  ownership. 

Both  Selfridge  and  Howland  outdid  them 
selves  in  efforts  to  establish  close  social  relations. 
But  Gordon  was  careful  to  put  himself  under 
no  obligations.  He  called  on  the  Howlands,  but 
he  laughingly  explained  why  he  could  not  ac 
cept  the  invitations  of  Mrs.  Howland  to  dinner. 

"I  have  to  tell  things  here  as  I  see  them,  and 
may  not  have  your  point  of  view.  How  can  I 
accept  your  hospitality  and  then  report  that 
I  think  your  husband  ought  to  be  sent  up  for 
life?" 

She  was  a  good,  motherly  woman  and  she 
laughed  with  him.  But  she  did  wish  this  pleas 
ant  young  fellow  could  be  made  to  take  the 
proper  view  of  things. 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Within  two  weeks  Elliot  had  finished  his  work 
at  Kamatlah. 

"Off  for  Kusiak  to-morrow,"  he  told  Holt  that 
night. 

The  old  miner  went  with  him  as  a  guide  to  the 
big  bend.  Gordon  had  no  desire  to  attempt 
again  Fifty-Mile  Swamp  without  the  help  of 
some  one  who  knew  every  foot  of  the  trail. 
Holt  had  taken  the  trip  a  dozen  times.  With 
him  to  show  the  way  the  swamp  became  merely 
a  hard,  grueling  mush  through  boggy  lowlands. 

Weary  with  the  trail,  they  reached  the  river 
at  the  end  of  a  long  day.  An  Indian  village  lay 
sprawled  along  the  bank,  and  through  this  the 
two  men  tramped  to  the  roadhouse  where  they 
were  to  put  up  for  the  night. 

Holt  called  to  the  younger  man,  who  was  at 
the  time  in  the  lead. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Elliot." 

Gordon  turned.  The  old  Alaskan  was  offer 
ing  a  quarter  to  a  little  half -naked  Indian  boy. 
Shyly  the  four-year-old  came  forward,  a  step 
at  a  time,  his  finger  in  his  mouth.  He  held  out 
a  brown  hand  for  the  coin. 

"What's  your  name,  kid?"  Holt  flashed  a 
look  at  Elliot  that  warned  him  to  pay  atten 
tion. 

"Colmac,"  the  boy  answered  bashfully. 

His  fist  closed  on  the  quarter,  he  turned,  and 


The  Yukon  Trail 

like  a  startled  caribou  he  fled  to  a  comely  young 
Indian  woman  standing  near  the  trail. 

With  gleaming  eyes  Holt  turned  to  Elliot. 
"Take  a  good  look  at  the  squaw,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

Elliot  glanced  at  the  woman  behind  whose 
skirts  the  youngster  was  hiding.  He  smiled  and 
nodded  pleasantly  to  her. 

"She's  not  bad  looking  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  he  said  after  they  had  taken  up  the  trail 
again. 

"You  ain't  the  only  white  man  that  has 
thought  that,"  retorted  the  old  miner  signifi 
cantly. 

"No?"  Gordon  had  learned  to  let  Holt  tell 
things  at  his  leisure.  It  usually  took  less  time 
than  to  try  to  hurry  him. 

"Name  of  the  kid  mean  anything  to  you?" 

"Can't  say  it  did." 

"Hm!  Named  for  his  dad.  First  syllable  of 
each  of  his  names." 

The  land  inspector  stopped  in  his  stride  and 
wheeled  upon  Holt.  His  eyes  asked  eagerly  a 
question.  "  You  don't  mean  Colby  Macdonald?  " 

"Why  don't  I?" 

"But  —  Good  Lord,  he  isn't  a  squawman, 
is  he?" 

"Not  in  the  usual  meaning  of  the  word.  She 
never  cooked  and  kept  house  for  him.  Just  the 

128 


The  Yukon  Trail 

same,  little  Colmac  is  his  kid.  Could  n't  you 
see  it  sticking  out  all  over  him?  He's  the  spit  'n' 
image  of  his  dad." 

"I  see  it  now  you've  pointed  it  out.  I  was 
trying  to  think  who  he  reminded  me  of.  Of 
course  it  was  Macdonald." 

"Mac  met  up  with  Meteetse  when  he  first 
scouted  this  country  for  coal  five  years  ago. 
So  far's  I  know  he  was  square  enough  with  the 
girl.  She  never  claimed  he  made  any  promises  or 
anything  like  that.  He  sends  a  check  down  once 
a  quarter  to  the  trader  here  for  her  and  the  kid." 

But  young  Elliot  was  not  thinking  about  Me 
teetse.  His  mind's  eye  saw  another  picture  — 
the  girl  at  Kusiak,  listening  spellbound  to  the 
tales  of  a  man  whose  actions  translated  romance 
into  life  for  her,  a  girl  swept  from  the  quiet  back 
waters  of  an  Irish  village  to  this  land  of  the  mid 
night  sun  with  its  amazing  contrasts. 

And  all  the  way  up  on  the  boat  she  contin 
ued  to  fill  his  mind.  The  slowness  of  the  steamer 
fretted  him.  He  paced  up  and  down  the  deck 
for  hours  at  a  time  worried  and  anxious.  Some 
times  the  jealousy  in  his  heart  flamed  up  like  a 
prairie  fire  when  it  comes  to  a  brush  heap.  The 
outrage  of  it  set  him  blazing  with  indignation. 
Diane  ought  to  be  whipped,  he  told  himself,  for 
her  part  in  the  deception.  It  was  no  less  than  a 
conspiracy.  What  could  an  innocent  young  girl 

129 


The  Yukon  Trail 

like  Sheba  know  of  such  a  man  as  Colby  Mac- 
donald?  Her  imagination  conceived,  no  doubt, 
an  idealized  vision  of  him.  But  the  real  man 
was  clear  outside  her  ken. 

Gordon  set  his  jaw  grimly.  He  would  have  it 
out  with  Diane.  He  would  let  her  see  she  was 
not  going  to  have  it  all  her  own  way.  By  God, 
he  would  put  a  spoke  in  her  wheel. 

Sometimes,  when  the  cool,  evening  breezes 
blew  on  his  bare,  fevered  head,  he  laughed  at 
himself  for  an  idiot.  How  did  he  know  that 
Macdonald  wanted  Sheba  O'Neill.  All  the  evi 
dence  he  had  was  that  he  had  once  seen  the  man 
watch  her  while  she  sang  a  sentimental  song. 
Whereas  it  was  common  talk  that  he  would 
probably  marry  Mrs.  Mallory,  that  for  months 
he  had  been  her  almost  daily  companion.  If 
the  older  woman  had  lost  the  sweet,  supple  slim- 
ness  of  her  first  youth,  she  had  won  in  exchange 
a  sophisticated  grace,  a  seductive  allure  that 
made  her  the  envy  of  all  the  women  with  whom 
she  associated.  She  held  at  command  a  warm, 
languorous  charm  which  had  stirred  banked 
fires  in  the  hearts  of  many  men.  Why  should 
not  Macdonald  woo  her?  Gordon  himself  ad 
mitted  her  attractiveness. 

And  why  should  he  take  it  for  granted  that 
Sheba  was  ready  to  drop  into  the  arms  of  the 
big  Alaskan  whenever  he  said  the  word?  At  the 

130 


The  Yukon  Trail 

least  he  was  twenty  years  older  than  she.  Surely 
she  might  admire  him  without  falling  in  love 
with  the  man.  Was  there  not  something  almost 
insulting  in  the  supposition  that  Macdonald  had 
only  to  speak  to  her  in  order  to  win? 

But  in  spite  of  reason  he  was  on  fire  to  come 
to  his  journey's  end.  No  sooner  had  he  reached 
his  hotel  than  he  called  up  Mrs.  Paget.  Quite 
clearly  she  understood  that  he  wanted  an  invi 
tation  to  dinner.  Yet  she  hesitated. 

"My  'phone  can't  be  working  well,"  Gordon 
told  her  gayly.  "You  must  have  asked  me  to 
dinner,  but  I  did  n't  just  hear  it.  Never  mind. 
I'll  be  there.  Seven  o'clock,  did  you  say?" 

Diane  laughed.  "You  're  just  as  much  a  boy  as 
you  were  ten  years  ago,  Gord.  All  right.  Come 
along.  But  you 're  to  leave  at  ten.  Do  you  under 
stand?" 

"No,  I  can't  hear  that.  My  'phone  has  gone 
bad  again.  And  if  I  had  heard,  I  shouldn't 
think  of  doing  anything  so  ridiculous  as  leaving 
at  that  hour.  It  would  be  an  insult  to  your  hos 
pitality.  I  know  when  I'm  well  off." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  withdraw  my  invitation. 
Perhaps  some  other  day  — " 

"I'll  leave  at  ten,"  promised  Elliot  meekly. 

He  could  almost  hear  the  smile  in  her  voice 
as  she  answered.  "Very  well.  Seven  sharp.  I'll 
explain  about  the  curfew  limit  sometime." 

131 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Macdonald  was  with  Miss  O'Neill  in  the  living- 
room  when  Gordon  arrived  at  the  Paget  home. 

Sheba  came  forward  to  greet  the  new  guest. 
The  welcome  in  her  eyes  was  very  genuine. 

"You  and  Mr.  Macdonald  know  each  other, 
of  course,"  she  said  after  her  handshake. 

The  Scotchman  nodded  his  lean,  grizzled  head, 
looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  field  agent. 
There  was  always  a  certain  deliberation  about 
his  manner,  but  it  was  the  slowness  of  strength 
and  not  of  weakness. 

"Yes,  I  know  Mr.  Elliot  —  now.  I'm  not  so 
sure  that  he  knows  me  —  yet." 

"I'm  beginning  to  know  you  rather  well,  Mr. 
Macdonald,"  answered  Gordon  quietly,  but  with 
a  very  steady  look. 

If  the  Alaskan  wanted  to  declare  war  he  was 
ready  for  it.  The  field  agent  knew  that  Selfridge 
had  sent  reports  detailing  what  had  happened 
at  Kamatlah.  Up  to  date  Macdonald  had  of 
fered  him  the  velvet  glove.  He  wondered  if  the 
time  had  come  when  the  fist  of  steel  was  to  be 
doubled. 

Paget  was  frankly  pleased  to  see  Gordon  again. 
He  was  a  simple,  honest  man  who  moved  always 
in  a  straight  line.  He  had  liked  Elliot  as  a  boy 
and  he  still  liked  him.  So  did  Diane,  for  that 
matter,  but  she  was  a  little  on  her  guard  against 
him.  She  had  certain  plans  under  way  that  she 

132 


The  Yukon  Trail 

intended  to  put  through.    She  was  not  going 
to  let  even  Gordon  Elliot  frustrate  them. 

"Did  you  have  a  successful  trip,  Mr.  Elliot?" 
asked  Sheba  innocently. 

Paget  grinned  behind  his  hand.  The  girl's 
question  was  like  a  match  to  powder,  and  every 
one  in  the  room  knew  it  but  she.  The  engineer's 
interests  and  his  convictions  were  on  the  side 
of  Macdonald,  but  he  recognized  that  Elliot 
had  been  sent  in  to  gather  facts  for  the  Govern 
ment  and  not  to  give  advice  to  it.  If  he  played 
fair,  he  could  only  tell  the  truth  as  he  saw  it. 

The  eyes  of  Diane  held  a  spark  of  hostility 
as  she  leaned  forward.  The  word  had  already 
been  passed  among  the  faithful  that  this  young 
man  was  not  taking  the  right  point  of  view. 

"Did  you,  Gordon?"  echoed  his  hostess. 

"I  think  so,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"I  hear  you  put  up  with  old  Gideon  Holt.  Is 
he  as  cracked  as  he  used  to  be?"  asked  Mac 
donald. 

"  Was  he  cracked  when  you  used  to  know  him 
on  Frenchman  Creek?"  countered  the  young 
man. 

Macdonald  shot  a  quick,  slant  look  at  him. 
The  old  man  had  been  talking,  had  he? 

"He  was  cracked  and  broke  too,"  laughed  the 
mine-owner  hardily.  "Cracked  when  he  came, 
broke  when  he  left." 

133 


The  Yukon  Trail 

:<  Yes,  that  was  one  of  the  stories  he  told  me." 
Gordon  turned  to  Sheba.  "You  should  meet  the 
old  man,  Miss  O'Neill.  He  knew  your  father  at 
Dawson  and  on  Bonanza." 

The  girl  was  all  eagerness.  "I'd  like  to.  Does 
he  ever  come  to  Kusiak?" 

"Nonsense!"  cut  in  Diane  sharply.  She 
flashed  at  Gordon  a  look  of  annoyance.  "He's 
nothing  but  a  daft  old  idiot,  my  dear." 

The  dinner  had  started  wrong,  and  though 
Paget  steered  the  conversation  to  safer  ground, 
it  did  not  go  very  well.  At  least  three  of  those 
present  were  a  little  on  edge.  Even  Sheba,  who 
had  missed  entirely  the  point  of  the  veiled  thrusts, 
knew  that  Elliot  was  not  in  harmony  with  either 
Diane  or  Macdonald. 

Gordon  was  ashamed  of  himself.  He  could 
not  quite  have  told  what  were  the  impulses  that 
had  moved  him  to  carry  the  war  into  the  camp 
of  the  enemy.  Perhaps,  more  than  anything  else, 
it  had  been  a  certain  look  of  quiet  assurance  in 
the  eyes  of  his  rival  when  he  looked  at  Sheba. 

He  rose  promptly  at  ten. 

"Must  you  go  so  soon?"  Diane  asked.  She 
was  smiling  at  him  with  bland  mockery. 

"I  really  must,"  answered  Elliot. 

His  hostess  followed  him  into  the  hall.  She 
watched  him  get  into  his  coat  before  saying  what 
was  on  her  mind. 

134 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"What  did  you  mean  by  telling  Sheba  that 
old  Holt  knew  her  father?  What  is  he  to  tell 
her  if  they  meet  —  that  her  father  died  of  pneu 
monia  brought  on  by  drink?  Is  that  what  you 
want?" 

Gordon  was  honestly  contrite.  "I  didn't 
think  of  that." 

"No,  you  were  too  busy  thinking  of  something 
mean  to  say  to  Mr.  Macdonald." 

He  agreed,  yet  could  not  forbear  one  dig  more. 
"I  suppose  I  wanted  Holt  to  tell  her  that  Mac 
donald  robbed  her  father  and  indirectly  was  the 
cause  of  his  death." 

"Absurd!"  exploded  Diane.  "You're  so  sim 
ple  that  you  accept  as  true  the  gossip  of  every 
crack-brained  idiot  —  when  it  suits  your  pur 
pose." 

He  smiled,  boyishly,  engagingly,  as  he  held 
out  his  hand.  "Don't  let's  quarrel,  Di.  I  admit 
I  forgot  myself." 

"All  right.  We  won't.  But  don't  believe  all 
the  catty  talk  you  hear,  Gordon." 

"  I  '11  try  to  believe  only  the  truth."  He  smiled, 
a  little  ruefully.  "And  it  is  n't  necessary  for  you 
to  explain  why  the  curfew  law  applies  to  me 
and  not  to  Macdonald." 

She  was  on  her  dignity  at  once.  "  You  're  quite 
right.  It  is  n't  necessary.  But  I  'm  going  to  tell 
you  anyhow.  Mr.  Macdonald  is  going  away 

135 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to-morrow  for  two  or  three  days  and  he  has  some 
business  he  wants  to  talk  over  with  Sheba.  He 
had  made  an  appointment  with  her,  and  I  did  n't 
think  it  fair  to  let  your  coming  interfere  with  it." 

Gordon  took  this  facer  with  his  smile  still 
working. 

"I've  got  a  little  business  I  want  to  talk  over 
with  you,  Di." 

She  had  always  been  a  young  woman  of  rather 
a  hard  finish.  Now  she  met  him  fairly,  eye  to 
eye.  "Any  time  you  like,  Gordon." 

Elliot  carried  away  with  him  one  very  defi 
nite  impression.  Diane  intended  Sheba  to  marry 
Macdonald  if  she  could  bring  it  about.  She 
had  as  good  as  served  notice  on  him  that  the 
girl  was  spoken  for. 

The  young  man  set  his  square  jaw.  Diane 
was  used  to  having  her  own  way.  So  was  Mac 
donald.  Well,  the  Elliots  had  a  will  of  their  own 
too. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHEBA    SAYS    "  PERHAPS " 

OBEYING  the  orders  of  the  general  in  com 
mand,  Peter  took  himself  to  his  den  with  the  ex 
cuse  that  he  had  blue-prints  to  work  over.  Pres 
ently  Diane  said  she  thought  she  heard  one  of 
the  children  crying  and  left  to  investigate. 

The  Scotchman  strode  to  the  fireplace  and 
stood  looking  down  into  the  glowing  coals.  He 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  break  the  silence  and 
Sheba  glanced  at  his  strong,  brooding  face  a 
little  apprehensively.  Her  excitement  showed 
in  the  color  that  was  beating  into  her  cheeks. 
She  knew  of  only  one  subject  that  would  call 
for  so  formal  a  private  talk  between  her  and 
Macdonald,  and  any  discussion  of  this  she  would 
very  much  have  liked  to  postpone. 

He  turned  from  the  fire  to  Sheba.  It  was  char 
acteristic  of  him  that  he  plunged  straight  at 
what  he  wanted  to  say. 

"I've  asked  to  see  you  alone,  Miss  O'Neill, 
because  I  want  to  make  a  confession  and  resti 
tution  —  to  begin  with,"  he  told  her  abruptly. 

She  had  a  sense  of  suddenly  stilled  pulses. 
"That  sounds  very  serious."  The  young  woman 
smiled  faintly. 

137 


The  Yukon  Trail 

His  face  of  chiseled  granite  masked  all  emo 
tion.  It  kept  under  lock  and  key  the  insurgent 
impulses  that  moved  him  when  he  looked  into 
the  sloe  eyes  charged  with  reserve.  Back  of 
them,  he  felt,  was  the  mystery  of  purity,  of 
maidenhood.  He  longed  to  know  her  better,  to 
find  out  and  to  appropriate  for  himself  the 
woman  that  lay  behind  the  fine  veil  of  flesh. 
She  seemed  to  him  delicate  as  a  flame  and  as 
vivid.  There  would  come  a  day  when  her  inno 
cent,  passional  nature  would  respond  to  the  love 
of  a  man  as  a  waiting  harp  does  to  skillful  fingers. 

"My  story  goes  away  back  to  the  Klondike 
days.  I  told  you  that  I  knew  your  father  on 
Frenchman  Creek,  but  I  did  n't  say  much  about 
knowing  him  on  Bonanza." 

"Mr.  Strong  has  told  me  something  about 
the  days  on  Bonanza,  and  I  knew  you  would 
tell  me  more  some  day  —  when  you  wanted  to 
speak  about  it."  She  was  seated  in  a  low  chair 
and  the  white  throat  lifted  toward  him  was 
round  as  that  of  a  bird. 

"Your  father  was  among  the  first  of  those 
who  stampeded  to  Bonanza.  He  and  Strong 
took  up  a  claim  together.  I  bought  out  the 
interest  of  your  father." 

"You  told  me  that." 

His  masterful  eyes  fastened  to  hers.  "I  did  n't 
tell  you  that  I  took  advantage  of  him.  He  was  — 

138 


The  Yukon  Trail 

not  well.  I  used  that  against  him  in  the  bar 
gaining.  He  wanted  ready  money,  and  I  tempted 
him." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  —  wronged  him?" 

"Yes.  I  cheated  him."  He  was  resolved  to 
gloss  over  nothing,  to  offer  no  excuses.  "I  did  n't 
know  there  was  gold  on  his  claim,  but  I  had  what 
we  call  a  hunch.  I  took  his  claim  without  giving 
value  received." 

It  was  her  turn  now  to  look  into  the  fire  and 
think.  From  the  letters  of  her  father,  from  talks 
with  old-timers  she  knew  how  in  the  stampedes 
every  man's  hand  had  been  for  himself,  how 
keen-edged  had  been  the  passion  for  gold,  a  veri 
table  lust  that  corroded  the  souls  of  men. 

"But  —  I  don't  understand."  Her  brave, 
steady  eyes  looked  directly  into  those  of  Mac- 
donald.  "If  he  felt  you  had — done  him  a  wrong 
—  why  did  he  come  to  you  when  he  was  ill?" 

"He  was  coming  to  demand  justice  of  me. 
On  the  way  he  suffered  exposure  and  caught 
pneumonia.  The  word  reached  us,  and  Strong 
and  I  brought  him  to  our  cabin." 

"You  faced  a  blizzard  to  bring  him  in.  Mr. 
Strong  told  me  how  you  risked  your  life  by 
carrying  him  through  the  storm  —  how  you 
would  n't  give  up  and  leave  him,  though  you 
were  weak  and  staggering  yourself.  He  says  it 
was  a  miracle  you  ever  got  through." 

139 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  big  mine-owner  brushed  this  aside  as  of 
no  importance.  "We  don't  leave  sick  men  to 
die  in  a  blizzard  up  North.  But  that's  not  the 
point." 

"I  think  it  has  a  bearing  on  the  matter  — 
that  you  saved  him  from  the  blizzard  —  and 
took  him  in  —  and  nursed  him  like  a  brother  till 
he  died." 

"I'm  not  heartless,"  said  Macdonald  impa 
tiently.  "Of  course  I  did  that.  I  had  to  do  it. 
I  could  n't  do  less." 

"Or  more,"  she  suggested.  "You  may  have 
made  a  hard  bargain  with  him,  but  you  wiped 
that  out  later." 

"That's  just  what  I  did  n't  do.  Don't  think 
my  conscience  is  troubling  me.  I'm  not  such  a 
mush -brained  fool.  If  it  had  not  been  for  you 
I  would  never  have  thought  of  it  again.  But 
you  are  his  daughter.  What  I  cheated  him  out 
of  belongs  to  you  —  and  you  are  my  friend." 

"Don't  use  that  word  about  what  you  did, 
please.  He  was  n't  a  child.  If  you  got  the  best 
of  him  in  a  bargain,  I  don't  think  father  would 
think  of  it  that  way." 

The  difficulty  was  that  he  could  not  tell  her 
the  truth  about  her  father's  weakness  for  drink 
and  how  he  had  played  upon  it.  He  bridged  all 
explanations  and  passed  to  the  thing  he  meant 
to  do  in  reparation. 

140 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"The  money  I  cleaned  up  from  that  claim 
belongs  to  you,  Miss  O'Neill.  You  will  oblige 
me  by  taking  it." 

From  his  pocket  he  took  a  folded  paper  and 
handed  it  to  her.  Sheba  opened  it  doubtfully. 
The  paper  contained  a  typewritten  statement 
and  to  it  was  attached  a  check  by  means  of  a 
clip.  The  check  was  made  out  to  her  and  signed 
by  Colby  Macdonald.  The  amount  it  called  for 
was  one  hundred  and  eighty-three  thousand 
four  hundred  and  thirty-one  dollars. 

"Oh,  I  could  n't  take  this,  Mr.  Macdonald  — 
I  could  n't.  It  does  n't  belong  to  me,"  she  cried. 

"It  belongs  to  you  —  and  you're  going  to  take 
it." 

"I  would  n't  know  what  to  do  with  so  much." 

"The  bank  will  take  care  of  it  for  you  until 
you  decide.  So  that's  settled."  He  passed  def 
initely  from  the  subject.  "There's  something 
else  I  want  to  say  to  you,  Miss  O'Neill." 

Some  change  in  his  voice  warned  her.  The 
girl  slanted  a  quick,  shy  glance  at  him. 

"I  want  to  know  if  you'll  marry  me,  Miss 
O'Neill,"  he  shot  at  her  abruptly.  Then,  with 
out  giving  her  time  to  answer,  he  pushed  on: 
"I'm  older  than  you  —  by  twenty -five  years. 
Always  I've  lived  on  the  frontiers.  I've  had  to 
take  the  world  by  the  throat  and  shake  from  it 
what  I  wanted.  So  I've  grown  hard  and  willful. 

Ill 


The  Yukon  Trail 

All  the  sweet,  fine  things  of  life  I've  missed.  But 
with  you  beside  me  I  'm  not  too  old  to  find  them 
yet  —  if  you'll  show  me  the  way,  Sheba." 

A  wave  of  color  swept  into  her  face,  but  her 
eyes  never  faltered  from  his.  "I'm  not  quite 
sure,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  mean  —  whether  you  love  me?" 

She  nodded.  "I  —  admire  you  more  than 
any  man  I  ever  met.  You  are  a  great  man, 
strong  and  powerful,  —  and  I  am  so  insignificant 
beside  you.  I  —  am  drawn  to  you  —  so  much. 
But  —  I  am  not  sure." 

Afterward,  when  she  thought  of  it,  Sheba 
wondered  at  the  direct  ease  of  his  proposal.  In 
the  romances  she  had  read,  men  were  shy  and 
embarrassed  and  fearful  of  the  issue.  But  Colby 
Macdonald  had  known  what  he  wanted  to  say 
and  had  said  it  as  coolly  and  as  readily  as  if  it 
had  been  a  business  detail.  She  was  the  one  that 
had  blushed  and  stammered  and  found  a  diffi 
culty  in  expressing  herself. 

"I'm  going  away  for  two  days.  Perhaps 
when  I  come  back  you  will  know,  Sheba.  Take 
your  time.  Marriage  is  serious  business.  I  want 
you  to  remember  that  my  life  has  been  very 
different  from  yours.  You'll  hear  all  sorts  of 
things  about  me.  Some  of  them  are  true.  There 
is  this  difference  between  a  man  and  a  good 
woman.  He  fights  and  falls  and  fights  again 

142 


The  Yukon  Trail 

and  wins.  But  a  good  woman  is  finer.  She  has 
never  known  the  failure  that  drags  one  through 
slime  and  mud.  Her  goodness  is  born  in  her; 
she  does  n't  have  to  fight  for  it." 

The  girl  smiled  a  little  tremulously.  "Does 
n't  she?  We're  not  all  angel,  you  know." 

"I  hope  you're  not.  There  will  need  to  be  a 
lot  of  the  human  in  you  to  make  allowances  for 
Colby  Macdonald,"  he  replied  with  an  answer 
ing  smile. 

When  he  said  good-bye  it  was  with  a  warm, 
strong  handshake. 

"I'll  be  back  in  two  days.  Perhaps  you'll 
have  good  news  for  me  then,"  he  suggested. 

The  dark,  silken  lashes  of  her  eyes  lifted  shyly 
to  meet  his. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DIANE   AND   GORDON   DIFFER 

DURING  the  absence  of  Macdonald  the  field 
agent  saw  less  of  Sheba  than  he  had  expected, 
and  when  he  did  see  her  she  had  an  abstracted 
manner  he  did  not  quite  understand.  She  kept 
to  her  own  room  a  good  deal,  except  when  she 
took  long  walks  into  the  hills  back  of  the  town. 
Diane  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  the  Alaskan  had 
put  his  fortune  to  the  test,  and  she  not  only  let 
her  cousin  alone  herself,  but  fended  Gordon  from 
her  adroitly. 

The  third  day  after  the  dinner  Elliot  dropped 
around  to  the  Pagets  with  intent  to  get  Sheba 
into  a  set  of  tennis.  Diane  sat  on  the  porch 
darning  socks. 

"  Sheba  is  out  walking  with  Mr.  Macdonald," 
she  explained  in  answer  to  a  question  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  her  guest. 

"Oh,  he's  back,  is  he?"  remarked  Gordon 
moodily. 

Mrs.  Paget  was  quite  cheerful  on  that  sub 
ject.  "He  came  back  this  morning.  Sheba  has 
gone  up  with  him  to  see  the  Lucky  Strike." 

' 'You're  going  to  marry  her  to  that  man  if 
you  can,  are  n't  you?"  he  charged. 

144 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"If  I  can,  Gordon."  She  slipped  a  darning- 
ball  into  one  of  little  Peter's  stockings  and  plac 
idly  trimmed  the  edges  of  the  hole. 

"It's  what  I  call  a  conspiracy." 

"Is  it?"  Diane  smiled. 

Gordon  understood  her  smile  to  mean  that 
he  was  jealous. 

"Maybe  I  am.  That's  not  the  point,"  he 
answered,  just  as  if  she  had  made  her  accusa 
tion  in  words. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  what  the  point  is,"  she 
suggested,  both  amused  and  annoyed. 

"He  isn't  good  enough  for  her.  You  know 
that  perfectly  well." 

"Good  enough!"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"What  man  is  good  enough  for  a  nice  girl  if  you 
come  to  that?  There  are  other  things  beside  sug 
ary  goodness.  Any  man  who  is  strong  can  make 
himself  good  enough  for  the  woman  he  loves." 

"Generally  speaking,  yes.  But  Colby  Mac- 
donald  is  different." 

"Thank  Heaven  he  is,"  she  retorted  impa 
tiently.  Then  added  after  a  moment:  "He  is  n't 
a  Sunday-School  superintendent  if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

"That  is  n't  what  I  mean  at  all.  But  there's 
such  a  thing  as  a  difference  between  right  and 
wrong,  is  n't  there?" 

"Oh,  yes.  For  instance,  Mr.  Macdonald  is 
145 


The  Yukon  Trail 

right  about  the  need  of  developing  Alaska  and 
the  way  to  do  it,  and  you  are  wrong." 

He  could  not  help  smiling  a  little  at  the  adroit 
way  she  tried  to  sidetrack  him,  even  though  he 
was  angry  at  her.  But  he  had  no  intention  of 
letting  her  go  without  freeing  his  mind. 

"I'm  talking  about  essential  right  and  wrong. 
Miss  O'Neill  is  idealizing  Macdonald.  I  don't 
suppose  you've  told  her,  for  instance,  that  he 
made  his  first  money  in  the  North  running  a 
dance  hall." 

"No,  I  have  n't  told  her  any  such  thing,  be 
cause  it  is  n't  true,"  she  replied  scornfully.  "He 
owned  an  opera  house  and  brought  in  a  com 
pany  of  players.  I  dare  say  they  danced.  That 's 
very  different,  as  you  'd  know  if  you  did  n't 
have  astigmatism  of  the  mind." 

"Not  the  way  the  story  was  told  me.  But 
let  that  pass.  Does  she  know  that  Macdonald 
beat  her  father  out  of  one  of  the  best  claims  on 
Bonanza  and  was  indirectly  responsible  for  his 
death?" 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  nonsense,  Gor 
don.  You  know  you  can't  prove  that,"  his  friend 
told  him  sharply. 

"I  think  I  can  —  if  it  is  necessary." 

Diane  looked  across  at  him  with  an  impudent 
little  tilt  of  the  chin.  "I  don't  think  I  like  you 
as  well  as  I  used  to." 

146 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Sorry,  because  I'd  like  you  just  as  well, 
Diane,  if  you  would  stop  trying  to  manage  your 
cousin  into  a  marriage  that  will  spoil  her  life," 
he  answered  gravely. 

"How  dare  you  say  that!  How  dare  you, 
Gordon  Elliot!  "  she  flung  back,  furious  at  him. 
"I  won't  have  you  here  talking  that  way  to  me. 
It's  an  insult." 

The  fearless,  level  eyes  of  her  friend  looked 
straight  at  her.  "I  say  it  because  the  happiness 
of  Miss  O'Neill  is  of  very  great  importance  to 


me." 


"Do  you  mean — ?"  Wide-eyed,  she  looked 
her  question  straight  at  him. 

"That's  just  what  I  mean,  Diane." 

She  darned  for  a  minute  in  silence.  It  had 
occurred  to  Diane  before  that  perhaps  Gordon 
might  be  in  love  with  Sheba,  but  she  had  put 
the  thought  from  her  because  she  did  not  want 
to  believe  it. 

"That's  different,  Gordon.  It  explains  —  and 
in  a  way  excuses — your  coming  here  and  trying  to 
bully  me."  She  stopped  her  work  to  flash  a  ques 
tion  at  him.  "Don't  you  think  that  maybe  it's 
only  a  fancy  of  yours?  I  remember  you  used  — " 

He  shook  his  head.  "No  chance,  Diane.  I'm 
hard  hit.  She's  the  only  girl  I  ever  met  that 
suited  me.  Everything  she  does  is  right.  Every 
move  she  makes  is  wonderful." 

147 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  eyes  with  which  she  looked  at  him  were 
softer,  as  those  of  women  are  wont  to  be  for  the 
true  romance. 

"You  poor  boy/'  she  murmured,  and  let  her 
hand  for  a  moment  rest  on  his. 

"  Meaning  that  I  lose?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"I  think  you  do.   I'm  not  sure." 

Elliot  leaned  forward  impulsively.  "Be  a 
good  sport,  Diane.  Let  me  have  my  chance  too. 
Why  do  you  make  it  easy  for  Macdonald  and 
hard  for  me?  Is  n't  it  because  the  glamour  of 
his  millions  blinds  you?" 

"He's  a  big,  splendid  man,  but  I  don't  like 
him  any  the  less  because  he  has  the  power  to 
make  life  easy  and  comfortable  for  Sheba,"  she 
defended  sturdily. 

"Yet  you  turned  down  Arthur  West,  the  best 
catch  in  your  set,  to  marry  Peter,  who  was  the 
worst,"  he  reminded  her.  "Have  you  ever  been 
sorry  for  it?" 

"That's  different.  Peter  and  I  fit.  It  was  one 
case  out  of  a  million."  She  gave  him  her  old, 
friendly  smile.  "But  I  don't  want  to  be  hard 
on  you,  Gord.  I'll  be  neutral.  Come  and  see 
Sheba  as  often  as  she'll  let  you." 

Gordon  beamed  as  he  shook  hands  with  her. 
"That  sounds  like  the  Di  Paget  I  used  to  know." 

She  recurred  to  the  previous  question.  "  Sheba 
knows  more  about  Mr.  Macdonald  than  you 

148 


The  Yukon  Trail 

think.  And  about  how  he  got  her  father's  claim, 
for  instance,  —  she  has  heard  all  that." 

"You  told  her?" 

"No.  Colby  Macdonald  told  her.  He  said  he 
practically  robbed  her  father,  and  he  gave  her 
a  check  for  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  to 
cover  the  clean-up  from  the  claim  and  interest." 

"Bully  for  him."  On  the  heel  of  this  he  flung 
a  question  at  her.  "Did  Macdonald  ask  her  to 
marry  him  the  night  of  the  dinner?  " 

A  flash  of  whimsical  amusement  lit  her  dainty 
face.  "You'd  better  ask  him  that.  Here  he 


comes  now." 


They  were  coming  down  the  walk  together, 
Macdonald  and  Sheba.  The  young  woman  was 
absorbed  in  his  talk,  and  she  did  not  know  that 
her  cousin  and  Elliot  were  on  the  porch  until 
she  was  close  upon  them.  But  at  sight  of  the 
young  man  her  eyes  became  warm  and  kind. 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  out  yesterday  when  you 
called,"  she  told  him. 

"And  you  were  out  again  to-day.  My  luck 
is  n't  very  good,  is  it?" 

He  laughed  pleasantly,  but  his  heart  was  bit 
ter.  He  believed  Macdonald  had  won.  Some 
hint  of  proprietorship  in  his  manner,  together 
with  her  slight  confusion  when  she  saw  them 
on  the  porch,  had  weighted  his  heart  with  lead. 

"We've  had  such  a  good  walk."  Sheba  went 
149 


The  Yukon  Trail 

on  quickly.  "I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Mr. 
Macdonald  telling  me  how  he  once  had  a  chance 
to  save  a  small  Esquimaux  tribe  during  a  hard 
winter.  He  carried  food  five  hundred  miles  to 
them.  It  was  a  thrilling  experience." 

"Mr.  Macdonald  has  had  a  lot  of  very  in 
teresting  experiences.  You  must  get  him  to  tell 
you  about  all  of  them,"  answered  Gordon  quietly. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  The  steel-gray 
ones  of  the  older  man  answered  the  challenge 
of  his  rival  with  a  long,  steady  look.  There  was 
in  it  something  of  triumph,  something  of  scorn 
ful  insolence.  If  this  young  fellow  wanted  war, 
he  did  not  need  to  wait  long  for  it. 

"Time  enough  for  that,  man.  Miss  O'Neill 
and  I  have  the  whole  Arctic  winter  before  us  for 
stories." 

The  muscles  in  the  lean  jaws  of  Gordon  El 
liot  stood  out  like  steel  ropes.  He  turned  to 
Sheba.  "Am  I  to  congratulate  Mr.  Macdonald?  " 

The  color  in  her  cheeks  grew  warmer,  but  her 
shy  glance  met  his  fairly.  "I  think  it  is  I  that 
am  to  be  congratulated,  Mr.  Elliot." 

Diane  took  her  cousin  in  her  arms.  "My 
dear,  I  wish  you  all  the  happiness  in  the  world," 
she  said  softly. 

The  Irish  girl  fled  into  the  house  as  soon  as  she 
could,  but  not  before  making  an  announcement. 

"We're  to  be  married  soon,  very  quietly.  If 
150 


The  Yukon  Trail 

you  are  still  at  Kusiak  we  want  you  to  be  one 
of  the  few  friends  present,  Mr.  Elliot." 

Macdonald  backed  her  invitation  with  a  cool, 
cynical  smile.  "Miss  O'Neill  speaks  for  us  both, 
of  course,  Elliot." 

The  defeated  man  bowed.  "Thanks  very 
much.  The  chances  are  that  I  '11  be  through  my 
business  here  before  then." 

As  soon  as  his  fiancee  had  gone  into  the  house, 
the  Scotchman  left.  Gordon  sat  down  in  a  porch 
chair  and  stared  straight  in  front  of  him.  The 
suddenness  of  the  news  had  brought  his  world 
tumbling  about  his  ears.  He  felt  that  such  a 
marriage  would  be  an  outrage  against  Sheba's 
innocence.  But  he  was  not  yet  far  enough  away 
from  the  blow  to  ask  himself  how  much  the  per 
sonal  hurt  influenced  his  opinion. 

Though  she  was  sorry  for  him,  Diane  did  not 
think  it  best  to  say  so  yet. 

Presently  he  spoke  thickly.  "I  suppose  you 
have  heard  that  he  was  a  squawman." 

His  friend  joined  battle  promptly  with  him. 
"That's  ridiculous.  Don't  be  absurd,  Gordon." 

"It's  the  truth.  I've  seen  the  woman.  She 
was  pointed  out  to  me." 

"By  old  Gideon  Holt,  likely,"  she  flashed. 

"One  could  get  evidence  and  show  it  to  Miss 
O'Neill,"  he  said  aloud,  to  himself  rather  than 
to  her. 

151 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Diane  put  her  point  of  view  before  him  with 
heated  candor.  "  You  could  n't.  Nobody  but 
a  cad  would  rake  up  old  scandals  about  the 
man  who  has  beaten  him  fairly  for  a  woman's 
love." 

"You  beg  the  question.   Has  he  won  fairly?" 

"Of  course  he  has.  Be  a  good  sport,  Gordon. 
Don't  kick  on  the  umpire's  decision.  Play  the 
game." 

"That's  all  very  well.  But  what  about  her? 
Am  I  to  sit  quiet  while  she  is  sacrificed  to  a 
code  of  honor  that  seems  to  me  rooted  in  dis 
honor?" 

"She  is  not  being  sacrificed.  I'm  her  cousin. 
I'm  very  fond  of  her.  And  I'd  trust  her  with 
Colby  Macdonald." 

"Play  fair,  Diane.  Tell  her  the  truth  about 
this  Indian  woman  and  let  your  cousin  decide 
for  herself.  You  can't  do  less,  can  you?" 

Mrs.  Paget  was  distinctly  annoyed.  :*You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Gordon  Elliot. 
You  take  all  the  gossip  of  a  crack-brained  old 
idiot  for  gospel  truth  just  because  you  want  to 
believe  the  worst  about  Mr.  Macdonald.  Don't 
you  know  that  people  will  say  anything  about 
a  man  who  succeeds?  Colby  Macdonald  is  too 
big  and  too  aggressive  not  to  have  made  hun 
dreds  of  enemies.  His  life  has  been  threatened 
dozens  of  times.  But  he  pays  no  attention  to 

152 


The  Yukon  Trail 

it  —  goes  right  on  building-up  this  country.  Yet 
you'd  think  he  had  a  cloven  hoof  to  hear  some 
people  talk.  I've  no  patience  with  them." 

"The  woman's  name  is  Meteetse,"  Gordon 
said  in  an  even  voice,  just  as  if  he  were  answer 
ing  a  question.  "She  is  young  and  good-looking 
for  an  Indian.  Her  boy  is  four  or  five  years  old. 
Colmac,  they  call  him,  and  he  looks  just  like 
Macdonald." 

"People  are  always  tracing  resemblances. 
There's  nothing  to  that.  But  suppose  his  life 
was  irregular  —  years  ago.  This  is  n't  Boston. 
It  used  to  be  the  fringe  of  civilization.  Men  did 
as  they  pleased  in  the  early  days.  We  don't 
ask  a  man  up  here  what  he  has  been,  but  what 
he  is.  You  ought  to  know  that  by  this  time." 

"This  was  n't  in  the  early  days.  It  was  five 
years  ago,  when  Macdonald  was  examining  the 
Kamatlah  coal-field.  I'm  told  he  sends  a  check 
down  the  river  once  a  month  for  the  woman." 

"All  the  more  credit  to  him  if  he  does."  Diane 
rose  and  looked  stormily  down  at  her  friend. 
"You're  about  as  broad  as  a  clam,  Gordon. 
Can't  you  see  that  even  if  it's  true,  all  that  is 
done  with?  It  is  a  part  of  his  past  —  and  it's 
finished  —  trodden  under  foot.  It  has  n't  a 
thing  to  do  with  Sheba." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  A  man  can't  cut 
loose  entirely  from  his  past.  It  is  a  part  of 

153 


The  Yukon  Trail 

him  —  and  Macdonald's  past  is  n't  good  enough 
for  Sheba  O'Neill/' 

Diane  tapped  her  little  foot  impatiently  on 
the  floor.  "  Do  you  know  many  men  whose  pasts 
are  good  enough  for  their  wives?  Are  you  a  plas 
ter-cast  saint  yourself?  You  know  perfectly  well 
that  men  trample  down  their  pasts  and  begin 
again  when  they  are  married.  Colby  Macdonald 
is  good  enough  for  any  woman  alive  if  he  loves 
her  enough." 

"You  don't  know  him." 

"I  know  him  far  better  than  you  do.  He  is 
the  biggest  man  I  know,  and  now  that  he  is  in 
love  with  a  good  woman  he'll  rise  to  his  chance." 

"She  ought  to  be  told  the  truth  about  Me- 
teetse  and  her  boy,"  he  insisted  doggedly. 

"I'm  not  going  to  disturb  her  with  a  lot  of 
old  maids'  gossip.  That's  flat." 

"But  if  I  prove  to  you  that  it  is  n't  gossip." 

Mrs.  Paget  lost  her  temper  completely.  "  Does 
the  Government  pay  you  to  mind  other  people's 
business,  Gordon?"  she  snapped. 

"I  would  n't  be  working  for  the  Government 
then,  but  for  Sheba  O'Neill." 

"And  for  Gordon  Elliot.  You'd  be  doing 
underhand  work  for  him  too.  Don't  forget  that. 
You  can't  do  it.  You're  not  that  kind  of  a  man. 
It  is  n't  in  you  to  go  muckraking  in  the  past  of 
the  man  Sheba  is  going  to  marry." 

154 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Elliot  rose  and  looked  across  at  the  blue- 
ribbed  mountains.  His  square  jaw  was  set  when 
he  turned  it  back  toward  Diane. 

"She  is  n't  going  to  marry  him  if  I  can  help 
it,"  he  said  quietly. 

He  walked  out  of  the  gate  and  down  the  walk 
toward  his  hotel. 

A  message  was  waiting  for  him  there  from  his 
chief  in  Seattle.  It  called  him  down  the  river  on 
business. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GENEVIEVE   MALLORY   TAKES   A   HAND 

INSIDE  of  an  hour  the  news  of  the  engagement 
of  Macdonald  was  all  over  Kusiak.  It  was 
through  a  telephone  receiver  that  the  gossip  was 
buzzed  to  Mrs.  Mallory  by  a  friend  who  owed 
her  a  little  stab.  The  voice  of  Gene  vie  ve  Mal 
lory  registered  faint  amusement,  but  as  soon 
as  she  had  hung  up,  her  face  fell  into  haggard 
lines.  She  had  staked  a  year  of  her  waning  youth 
on  winning  the  big  mining  man  of  Kusiak,  to 
gether  with  all  the  money  that  she  had  been  able 
to  scrape  up  for  a  campaign  outfit.  Moreover, 
she  liked  him. 

It  was  not  in  the  picture  that  she  should  fall 
desperately  in  love  with  any  man.  A  woman  of 
the  world,  she  was  sheathed  in  the  plate  armor 
of  selfishness.  But  she  was  as  near  to  loving 
Macdonald  as  was  possible  for  her.  She  had  a 
great  deal  of  admiration  for  his  iron  strength, 
for  the  grit  of  the  man.  No  woman  could  twist 
him  around  her  finger,  yet  it  was  possible  to  lead 
him  a  long  way  in  the  direction  one  wanted. 

Mrs.  Mallory  sat  down  in  the  hall  beside  the 
telephone,  her  fingers  laced  about  one  crossed 
knee.  She  knew  that  if  Sheba  O'Neill  had  not 

156 


The  Yukon  Trail 

come  on  the  scene,  Macdonald  would  have  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  He  had  been  moving  slowly 
toward  her  for  months.  They  understood  each 
other  and  were  at  ease  together.  Between  them 
was  a  strong  physical  affinity.  Both  were  good- 
tempered  and  were  wise  enough  to  expect  hu 
man  imperfection. 

Then  Diane  Paget  had  brought  in  this  slim, 
young  cousin  of  hers  and  Colby  Macdonald  had 
been  fascinated  by  the  mystery  of  her  innocent 
youth.  Mrs.  Mallory  was  like  steel  beneath  the 
soft  and  indolent  surface.  Swiftly  she  mapped 
her  plan  of  attack.  The  Alaskan  could  not  be 
moved,  but  it  might  be  possible  to  startle  the 
girl  into  breaking  the  engagement.  Genevieve 
Mallory  would  have  used  the  weapon  at  hand 
without  scruple  in  any  case,  but  she  justified 
herself  on  the  ground  that  such  a  marriage  could 
result  only  in  unhappiness. 

But  before  she  made  any  move  Mrs.  Mal 
lory  intended  to  be  sure  of  her  facts.  It  was  like 
her  to  go  to  headquarters  for  information.  She 
got  Macdonald  on  the  wire. 

"I've  just  heard  something  nice  about  you. 
Do  tell  me  it's  true,"  she  said,  her  voice  warm 
with  sympathy. 

Macdonald  laughed  with  an  almost  boyish 
embarrassment.  "It's  true,  I  reckon." 

"I'm  so  glad.  She's  a  lovely  girl.  The  s wee t- 
157 


The  Yukon  Trail 

est  thing  that  ever  lived.  I'm  sure  you'll  be 
happy.  I  always  did  think  you  would  make  a 
perfect  husband.  Of  course,  I'm  simply  green 
with  envy  of  her." 

Her  little  ripple  of  laughter  was  gay  and  care 
free.  The  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  line  never 
had  liked  her  better.  Since  he  was  not  a  fool 
he  had  guessed  pretty  closely  how  things  stood 
with  her.  She  was  a  game  little  sport,  he  told 
himself  approvingly.  It  appealed  to  him  im 
mensely  that  she  could  take  such  a  facer  and 
come  up  smiling. 

There  were  no  signs  of  worry  wrinkles  on  her 
face  when  the  maid  admitted  a  caller  half  an 
hour  later.  Oliver  Dustin  was  the  name  on  the 
card.  He  was  a  remittance  man,  a  tame  little 
parlor  pet  whose  vocation  was  to  fetch  and 
carry  for  pretty  women,  and  by  some  odd  trick 
of  fate  he  had  been  sifted  into  the  Northland. 
Mrs.  Mallory  had  tolerated  him  rather  scorn 
fully,  but  to-day  she  smiled  upon  him. 

Propped  up  by  pillows,  she  reclined  luxuri 
ously  on  a  lounge.  A  thin  spiral  of  smoke  rose 
like  incense  to  the  ceiling  from  her  lips.  The 
slow,  regular  rise  and  fall  of  her  breathing  be 
neath  the  filmy  lace  of  her  gown  accented  the 
perfect  fullness  of  bust  and  throat. 

Dustin  helped  himself  to  a  cigarette  and  made 
himself  comfortable. 

158 


The  Yukon  Trail 

She  set  herself  to  win  him.  He  was  immensely 
flattered  at  her  awakened  interest.  When  she 
called  him  by  his  first  name,  he  wagged  all  over 
like  a  pleased  puppy. 

It  came  to  him  after  a  time  that  she  was  con 
sidering  him  for  a  confidential  mission.  He  as 
sured  her  eagerly  that  there  was  no  trouble  too 
great  for  him  to  take  if  he  could  be  of  any  serv 
ice  to  her.  She  hesitated  and  doubted  and  at 
last  as  a  special  favor  to  him  accepted  his  offer. 
Their  heads  were  close  in  whispered  talk  for  a 
few  minutes,  at  the  end  of  which  Dustin  left 
the  room  with  his  chin  in  the  air.  He  was  a 
knight  errant  in  the  employ  of  the  most  attrac 
tive  woman  north  of  fifty-three. 

When  Elliot  took  the  down-river  boat  he  found 
Oliver  Dustin  was  a  fellow  passenger.  The  little 
man  smoked  an  occasional  cigar  with  the  land 
agent  and  aired  his  views  on  politics  and  affairs 
social.  He  left  the  boat  at  the  big  bend.  With 
out  giving  him  much  of  his  thought  Gordon  was 
a  little  surprised  that  the  voluble  remittance  man 
had  not  told  him  where  he  was  going. 

Not  till  a  week  later  did  Elliot  return  up  the 
river.  He  was  asleep  at  the  time  the  Sarah  passed 
the  big  bend,  but  next  morning  he  discovered 
that  Selfridge  and  Dustin  had  come  aboard 
during  the  night.  In  the  afternoon  he  came  upon 
a  real  surprise  when  he  found  Meteetse  and  her 

159 


The  Yukon  Trail 

little  boy  Colmac  seated  upon  a  box  on  the  lower 
deck  where  freight  for  local  points  was  stored. 

His  guess  was  that  they  were  local  passengers, 
but  wharf  after  wharf  slipped  behind  them  and 
the  two  still  remained  on  board.  They  appeared 
to  know  nobody  else  on  the  Sarah,  though  once 
Gordon  met  Dust  in  just  as  he  was  hurrying 
away  from  the  Indian  woman.  The  little  remit 
tance  man  took  the  pains  to  explain  to  Elliot 
later  that  he  was  trying  to  find  out  whether  the 
Indians  knew  any  English. 

Meteetse  transferred  with  the  other  Kusiak 
passengers  at  the  river  junction.  The  field 
agent  was  not  the  only  one  on  board  who  won 
dered  where  she  was  going.  Selfridge  was  con 
sumed  with  curiosity,  and  when  she  and  the 
boy  got  off  at  Kusiak,  he  could  restrain  himself 
no  longer.  Gordon  saw  Wally  talking  with  her. 
Meteetse  showed  him  an  envelope  which  evi 
dently  had  an  address  written  upon  it,  for  the 
little  man  pointed  out  to  her  the  direction  in 
which  she  must  go. 

Since  leaving  Kusiak  nearly  two  weeks  be 
fore,  no  word  had  reached  Gordon  of  Sheba. 
As  soon  as  he  had  finished  dinner  at  the  hotel,  he 
walked  out  to  the  Paget  house  and  sent  in  his 
card. 

Sheba  came  into  the  hall  to  meet  him  from 
the  living-room  where  she  had  been  sitting 

160 


The  Yukon  Trail 

with  the  man  she  expected  to  marry  next  week. 
She  gave  a  little  murmur  of  pleasure  at  sight  of 
him  and  held  out  both  hands. 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  n't  going  to  get  back 
in  time.  I'm  so  glad,"  she  told  him  warmly. 

He  managed  to  achieve  a  smile.  "When  is 
the  great  day?" 

"Next  Thursday.  Of  course,  we're  as  busy 
as  can  be,  but  Diane  says  — " 

A  ring  at  the  door  interrupted  her.  Sheba 
stepped  forward  and  let  in  an  Indian  woman 
with  a  little  boy  clinging  to  her  hand. 

"You  Miss  O'Neill?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

From  the  folds  of  her  shawl  she  drew  a  letter. 
The  girl  glanced  at  the  address,  then  opened 
and  read  what  was  written.  She  looked  up, 
puzzled,  first  at  the  comely,  flatfooted  Indian 
woman  and  afterward  at  the  handsome  little 
brown-faced  papoose.  She  turned  to  Gordon. 

"This  letter  says  I  am  to  ask  this  woman 
who  is  the  father  of  her  boy.  What  does  it 
mean?" 

Gordon  knew  instantly  what  it  meant,  though 
he  could  not  guess  who  had  dealt  the  blow.  He 
hesitated  for  an  answer,  and  in  his  embarrass 
ment  she  felt  that  which  began  to  ring  a  bell  of 
warning  in  her  heart. 

The  impulse  to  spare  her  pain  was  stronger  in 
161 


The  Yukon  Trail 

him  than  the  desire  that  she  should  know  the 
truth. 

"Send  her  away,"  he  urged.  " Don't  ask  any 
questions.  She  has  been  sent  to  hurt  you." 

A  fawnlike  fear  flashed  into  the  startled  eyes. 
44 To  hurt  me?" 

"I  am  afraid  so." 

"  But  —  why?  I  have  done  nobody  any 
harm."  She  seemed  to  hold  even  her  breathing 
in  suspense.  Only  a  pulse  beat  wildly  in  her 
white  throat  like  the  heart  of  an  imprisoned 
thrush. 

"Perhaps  some  of  Macdonald's  enemies,"  he 
suggested. 

And  at  that  there  came  a  star-flash  into  the 
soft  eyes  and  a  lifted  tilt  to  the  chin  cut  fine  as  a 
cameo.  She  turned  proudly  to  the  Indian  woman. 

"What  is  it  that  you  have  to  tell  me  about 
this  boy's  father?" 

Meteetse  began  to  speak.  At  the  first  men 
tion  of  Macdonald's  name  Sheba's  eyes  dilated. 
Her  smile,  her  sweet,  glad  pleasure  at  Gordon's 
arrival,  were  already  gone  like  the  flame  of  a 
blown  candle.  Clearly  her  heart  was  a-flutter, 
in  fear  of  she  knew  not  what.  When  the  Indian 
woman  told  how  she  had  first  crossed  the  path 
of  Macdonald,  the  color  flamed  into  the  cheeks 
of  the  Irish  girl,  but  as  the  story  progressed,  the 
blood  ebbed  even  from  her  lips. 

162 


The  Yukon  Trail 

With  a  swift  movement  of  her  fingers  she 
flashed  on  the  hall  light.  Her  gaze  searched  the 
brown,  shiny  face  of  the  little  chap.  She  read 
there  an  affidavit  of  the  truth  of  his  mother's 
tale.  The  boy  had  his  father's  trick  of  squinting 
a  slant  look  at  anything  he  found  interesting. 
It  was  impossible  to  see  him  and  not  recognize 
Colby  Macdonald  reincarnated. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  Sheba  suddenly. 

The  youngster  hung  back  shyly  among  the 
folds  of  the  Indian  woman's  skirt.  "Colmac," 
he  said  at  last  softly. 

"Come!"  Sheba  flung  open  the  door  of  the 
living-room  and  ushered  them  in. 

Macdonald,  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
room  during  her  absence,  pulled  up  in  his  stride. 
He  stood  frowning  at  the  native  woman,  then 
his  eyes  passed  to  Elliot  and  fastened  upon  him. 
The  face  of  the  Scotchman  might  have  been 
chipped  from  granite.  It  was  grim  as  that  of  a 
hanging  judge. 

Gordon  started  to  explain,  then  stopped  with 
a  shrug.  What  was  the  use?  The  man  would 
never  believe  him  in  the  world. 

"I'll  remember  this,"  the  Alaskan  promised 
his  rival.  There  was  a  cold  glitter  in  his  eyes,  a 
sudden  flare  of  the  devil  that  was  blood-chilling. 

"It's  true,  then,"  broke  in  Sheba.  "You're 
a  —  a  squawman.  You  belong  to  this  woman." 

163 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  cried  roughly. 
"That's  been  ended  for  years." 

"Ended?"  Sheba  drew  Colmac  forward  by 
the  wrist.  "  Do  you  deny  that  this  is  your  boy?  " 

The  big  Alaskan  brushed  this  aside  as  of  no 
moment.  "I  dare  say  he  is.  Anyhow  I 'm  paying 
for  his  keep.  What  of  it?  That 's  all  finished  and 
done  with." 

"How  can  it  be  done  with  when  —  when  she's 
the  mother  of  your  child,  your  wife  before  God?  " 
The  live  eyes  attacked  him  from  the  dusk  that 
framed  the  oval  of  her  pale  face.  Standing 
there  straight  as  an  aspen,  the  beautiful  bosom 
rising  and  falling  quickly  while  the  storm  waves 
beat  through  her  blood,  Sheba  O'Neill  had  never 
made  more  appeal  to  the  strong,  lawless  man 
who  desired  her  for  his  wife. 

"You  don't  understand."  Macdonald's  big 
fists  were  clenched  so  savagely  that  the  knuckles 
stood  out  white  from  the  brown  tan  of  the  flesh. 
"This  is  a  man's  country.  It's  new  —  close  to 
nature.  What  he  wants  he  takes  —  if  he 's  strong 
enough.  I'm  elemental.  I — " 

"You  wanted  her  —  and  you  took  her.  Now 
you  want  me  —  and  I  suppose  you'll  take  me 
too."  Her  scornful  words  had  the  sting  of  a 
whiplash. 

"I've  lived  as  all  men  live  who  have  red  blood 
in  them.  This  woman  is  an  incident.  I've  been 

164 


The  Yukon  Trail 

aboveboard.  She  can't  say  I  ever  promised 
more  than  I've  given.  I've  kept  her  and  the 
boy.  It's  been  no  secret.  If  you  had  asked,  I 
would  have  told  you  the  whole  story." 

"Does  that  excuse  you?" 

"I  don't  need  any  excuse.  I 'ma  man.  That's 
excuse  enough.  You've  been  brought  up  among 
a  lot  of  conventions  and  social  lies.  The  one 
big  fact  you  want  to  set  your  teeth  into  now  is 
that  I  love  you,  that  there  is  n't  another  woman 
on  God's  earth  for  me,  and  that  there  never  will 
be  again." 

Her  eyes  flashed  battle.  "The  one  big  fact 
I  'm  facing  is  that  you  have  insulted  me  —  that 
you  insult  me  again  when  you  mention  love 
with  that  woman  and  boy  in  the  room.  You 
belong  to  them  —  go  to  them  —  and  leave  me 
alone."  She  had  been  fighting  for  self-control, 
to  curb  her  growing  resentment,  but  now  it 
flamed  passionately  into  words.  "I  hate  the 
sight  of  you.  Why  don't  you  go  —  all  of  you  — 
and  leave  me  in  peace?" 

It  was  a  cry  of  bruised  pride  and  wounded 
love.  Elliot  touched  the  Indian  woman  on  the 
shoulder.  Meteetse  turned  stolidly  and  walked 
out  of  the  room,  still  leading  Colmac  by  the 
hand.  The  young  man  followed. 

Macdonald  closed  the  door  behind  them,  then 
strode  frowning  up  and  down  the  room.  The 

165 


The  Yukon  Trail 

fear  was  growing  on  him  that  for  all  his  great 
driving  power  he  could  not  shake  this  slim  girl 
from  the  view  to  which  she  clung.  If  the  situa 
tion  had  not  been  so  serious,  it  would  have 
struck  him  as  ridiculous.  His  relation  with 
Meteetse  had  been  natural  enough.  He  believed 
that  he  had  acted  very  honorably  to  her.  Many 
a  man  would  have  left  her  in  the  lurch  to  take 
care  of  the  youngster  by  herself.  But  he  had 
acknowledged  his  obligation.  He  was  paying 
his  debt  scrupulously,  and  because  of  it  the 
story  had  risen  to  confront  him.  He  felt  that 
it  was  an  unjust  blow  of  fate.  Punishment  was 
falling  upon  him,  not  for  what  he  had  done,  but 
because  he  had  scorned  to  make  a  secret  of  it. 

He  knew  that  he  must  justify  himself  before 
Sheba  or  lose  her.  As  she  stood  in  the  dusk  so 
tall  and  rigid,  he  knew  her  heart  was  steel  to 
him.  Her  finely  chiseled  face  had  the  look  of 
race.  Never  had  the  spell  of  her  been  more  upon 
him.  He  crushed  back  a  keen-edged  desire  to 
take  her  supple  young  body  into  his  arms  and 
kiss  her  till  the  scarlet  ran  into  her  cheeks  like 
splashes  of  wine. 

"You  have  n't  the  proper  slant  on  this,  Sheba. 
Alaska  is  the  last  frontier.  It's  the  dropping- 
off  place.  You're  north  of  fifty-three." 

"Am  I  north  of  the  Ten  Commandments?" 
she  demanded  with  the  inexorable  judgment  of 

166 


The  Yukon  Trail 

youth.  "Did  you  leave  the  moral  code  at  home 
when  you  came  in  over  the  ice?" 

He  smiled  a  little.  "Morality  is  the  average 
conduct  of  the  average  man  at  a  given  time  and 
place.  It  is  based  on  custom  and  expediency. 
The  rules  made  for  Drogheda  won't  fit  Dawson 
or  Nome.  The  laws  made  to  protect  young 
women  in  Ireland  would  be  absurd  if  applied  to 
half-breed  squaws  in  Alaska.  Meteetse  does  not 
hold  herself  disgraced  but  honored.  She  counts 
her  boy  far  superior  to  the  other  youngsters  of 
the  village,  and  he  is  so  considered  by  the  tribe. 
I  am  told  she  lords  it  over  her  sisters." 

A  faint  flush  of  anger  had  crept  into  her  cheeks. 
"Your  view  of  morality  puts  us  on  a  level  with 
the  animals.  I  will  not  discuss  the  subject,  if 
you  please." 

•"We  must  discuss  it.  I  must  get  you  to  see 
that  Meteetse  and  what  she  stood  for  in  my  life 
have  nothing  to  do  with  us.  They  belong  to  my 
past.  She  does  n't  exist  for  either  of  us  —  is  n't 
in  any  way  a  part  of  my  present  or  future." 

"She  exists  for  me,"  answered  Sheba  list 
lessly.  She  felt  suddenly  old  and  weary.  "But 
I  can't  talk  about  it.  Please  go.  I  want  to  be 
alone." 

Again  Macdonald  paced  restlessly  down  the 
room  and  back.  He  moved  with  a  long,  easy, 
tireless  stride.  The  man  was  one  among  ten 

167 


The  Yukon  Trail 

thousand,  dominant,  virile,  every  ounce  of  him 
strong  as  tested  steel.  But  he  felt  as  if  all  his 
energy  were  caged. 

"Why  don't  you  go?"  the  girl  pleaded.  "It's 
no  use  to  stay." 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her.  "I'm  going  to 
marry  you,  Sheba.  Don't  think  I'll  let  that 
meddler  interfere  with  our  happiness.  You're 


mine." 


"No.  Never!"  she  cried.  "I'll  take  the  boat 
and  go  home  first." 

"You've  promised  to  marry  me.  You're  go 
ing  to  keep  your  word  and  be  glad  of  it  all  your 
life." 

She  shook  her  head.   "No." 

"Yes."  Macdonald  had  always  shown  re 
markable  restraint  with  her.  He  had  kissed  her 
seldom,  and  always  with  a  kind  of  awe  at  her 
young  purity.  Now  he  caught  her  by  the  shoul 
ders.  His  eyes,  deep  in  their  sockets,  mirrored 
the  passionate  desire  of  his  heart. 

The  color  flamed  into  her  face.  She  looked  hot 
to  the  touch,  an  active  volcano  ready  to  erupt. 
There  was  an  odd  feeling  in  her  mind  that  this 
big  man  was  a  stranger  to  her. 

"Take  your  hands  from  me,"  she  ordered. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  give  you  up 
now  —  now,  after  I ' ve  won  you  —  because  of  a 
damfool  scruple  in  your  pretty  head?  You  don't 

1C8 


The  Yukon  Trail 

know  me.   It's  too  late.    I  love  you  —  and  I'm 
going  to  protect  both  of  us  from  your  prudish- 


ness." 


His  arms  closed  on  her  and  he  crushed  her  to 
him,  looking  down  hungrily  into  the  dark,  little 
face. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  cried  fiercely,  struggling  to 
free  herself. 

For  answer  he  kissed  the  red  lips,  the  flaming 
cheeks,  the  angry  eyes.  Then,  coming  to  his 
senses,  he  pushed  her  from  him,  turned,  and 
strode  heavily  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

GORDON   BUYS   A   REVOLVER 

SELFRIDGE  was  not  eager  to  meet  his  chief, 
but  he  knew  he  must  report  at  once.  He  stopped 
at  his  house  only  long  enough  to  get  into  fresh 
clothes  and  from  there  walked  down  to  the  office. 
Over  the  Paget  telephone  he  had  got  into  touch 
with  Macdonald  who  told  him  to  wait  at  head 
quarters  until  he  came. 

It  had  been  the  intention  of  Macdonald  to 
go  direct  from  Sheba  to  his  office,  but  the  explo 
sion  brought  about  by  Meteetse  had  sent  him 
out  into  the  hills  for  a  long  tramp.  He  was  in 
a  stress  of  furious  emotion,  and  until  he  had 
worked  off  the  edge  of  it  by  hard  mushing,  the 
cramped  civilization  of  the  town  stifled  him. 

Hours  later  he  strode  into  the  office  of  the 
company.  He  was  dust-stained  and  splashed 
with  mud.  Fifteen  miles  of  stiff  heel-and-toe 
walking  had  been  flung  behind  him. 

Wally  lay  asleep  in  a  swivel  chair,  his  fat  body 
sagging  and  his  head  fallen  sideways  in  such  a 
way  as  to  emphasize  the  plump  folds  of  his 
double  chin.  His  eyes  opened.  They  took  in 
his  chief  slowly.  Then,  in  a  small  panic,  he 
jumped  to  his  feet. 

170 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Must  V  been  taking  thirty  winks,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Been  up  nights  a  good  deal." 

"What  doing?"  demanded  the  Scotchman 
harshly. 

In  a  hurried  attempt  to  divert  the  anger  of 
Macdonald,  his  assistant  made  a  mistake.  "Say, 
Mac!  Who  do  you  think  came  up  on  the  boat 
with  me?  I  wondered  if  you  knew.  Meteetse 
and  her  kid  — " 

He  stopped.  The  big  man  was  glaring  savagely 
at  him.  But  Macdonald  said  nothing.  He  waited, 
and  under  the  compulsion  of  his  forceful  silence 
Wally  stumbled  on  helplessly. 

"  —  They  got  off  here.  'Course  I  did  n't  know 
whether  you  'd  sent  for  her  or  not,  so  I  stopped 
and  kinder  gave  her  the  glad  hand  just  to  size 
things  up." 

"Yes."     * 

"She  had  the  address  of  Miss  O'Neill,  that 
Irish  girl  staying  at  the  Pagets,  the  one  that 
came  in  — " 

"Go  on,"  snapped  his  chief. 

"So  I  directed  her  how  she  could  get  there 
and- 

Wally  found  himself  lifted  from  the  chair  and 
hammered  down  into  it  again.  His  soft  flesh 
quaked  like  a  jelly.  As  he  stared  pop-eyed  at 
the  furious  face  above  him,  the  fat  chin  of  the 
little  man  drooped. 

171 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"My  God,  Mac,  don't  do  that!"  he  whined. 

Macdonald  wheeled  abruptly  away,  crossed 
the  room  in  long  strides,  and  came  back.  He 
had  a  grip  on  himself  again. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  said  aloud.  "You're 
nothing  but  a  spineless  putterer.  Have  n't  you 
enough  sense  even  to  give  me  a  chance  to  decide 
for  myself?  Why  did  n't  you  keep  the  woman 
with  you  till  you  could  send  for  me,  you  daft 
donkey?" 

"I  swear  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"What  have  you  got  up  there  in  your  head 
instead  of  brains?  I  send  you  outside  to  look 
after  things  and  you  fall  down  on  the  job.  I  give 
you  plain  instructions  what  to  do  at  Kamatlah 
and  you  let  Elliot  make  a  monkey  of  you.  You 
see  him  on  the  boat  with  a  woman  coming  to 
make  trouble  for  me,  and  the  best  you  can  do  is 
to  help  her  on  the  way.  Man,  man,  use  your 
gumption." 

" If  I  had  known— " 

"D'ye  think  you've  got  sense  enough  to  take 
a  plain,  straight  message  as  far  as  the  hotel  ?  Be 
cause  if  you  have,  I've  got  one  to  send." 

Wally  caressed  tenderly  his  bruised  flesh.  He 
had  a  childlike  desire  to  weep,  but  he  was  afraid 
Macdonald  would  kick  him  out  of  the  office. 

"'Course  I'll  do  whatever  you  say,  Mac," 
he  answered  humbly. 

172 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  Scotch-Canadian  brushed  the  swivel 
chair  and  its  occupant  to  one  side,  drew  up  an 
other  chair  in  front  of  the  desk,  and  faced  Sel- 
fridge  squarely.  The  eyes  that  blazed  at  the 
little  man  were  the  grimmest  he  had  ever  looked 
into. 

"  Go  to  the  hotel  and  see  this  man  Elliot  alone. 
Tell  him  he 's  gone  too  far  —  butted  into  my 
affairs  once  too  often.  There's  not  a  man  alive 
I  'd  stand  it  from.  My  orders  are  for  him  to  get 
out  on  the  next  boat.  If  he 's  here  after  that,  I  '11 
kill  him  on  sight." 

The  color  ebbed  out  of  the  florid  face  of  Wally. 
He  moistened  his  lips  to  speak.  "Good  God, 
Mac,  you  can't  do  that.  He'll  go  out  and  re 
port—" 

"To  hell  with  his  report.  Let  him  say  what 
he  likes.  Put  this  to  him  straight:  that  he  and 
I  can't  stay  in  this  town  —  and  both  of  us  live." 

Wally  had  lapped  up  too  many  highballs  in 
the  past  ten  years  to  relish  this  kind  of  a  mission. 
He  had  depressed  his  nerves  with  overmuch  to 
bacco  and  spurred  them  with  liquors,  had  dissi 
pated  his  force  in  many  small  riotings.  His 
nerve  was  gone.  He  had  not  the  punch  any  more. 
Yet  Mac  was  always  expecting  him  to  help  out 
with  his  rough  stuff,  he  reflected  fretfully.  This 
was  the  third  time  in  a  month  that  he  had  been 
flung  headlong  into  trouble.  Take  this  message 

173 


The  Yukon  Trail 

now.  There  was  no  sense  in  it.  Selfridge  plucked 
up  his  courage  to  say  so. 

"That  won't  buy  us  anything  but  trouble, 
Mac.  In  the  old  days  you  could  put  over  — " 

The  little  man  never  guessed  how  close  he 
came  to  being  flung  through  the  transom  over 
the  door,  but  his  instinct  warned  him  to  stop. 
His  objection  died  away  in  a  mumble. 

"O'  course  I'll  do  whatever  you  say,"  he 
added  a  second  time. 

"See  you  do,"  advised  his  chief,  an  ugly  look 
in  his  eyes.  "Tell  him  he  gets  till  the  next  boat. 
If  he's  here  after  that,  he'd  better  go  heeled, 
for  I'll  shoot  on  sight  wherever  we  meet." 

Selfridge  went  on  his  errrand  with  lagging  feet. 
On  the  way  he  stopped  at  the  Pay-Streak  Saloon 
to  fortify  himself  with  a  cocktail.  He  found 
Elliot  sitting  moodily  alone  on  the  porch  of  the 
hotel. 

In  Gordon's  pocket  there  was  a  note  to  Mac- 
donald  explaining  that  he  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  coming  of  Meteetse.  He  had  expected 
to  send  it  by  the  hotel  porter  that  evening,  but 
the  curt  order  to  leave  town  filled  him  with  a 
chill  anger.  The  dictator  of  affairs  at  Kusiak 
might  think  what  he  pleased  for  all  the  explana 
tion  he  would  get  from  him.  As  for  taking  the 
next  boat,  Elliot  did  not  even  give  that  consid 
eration. 

174 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Tell  your  master  I  don't  take  orders  from 
him,"  he  told  Wally  quietly.  "I'll  stay  till  my 
work  here  is  done." 

They  had  moved  a  few  yards  down  the  street. 
Now  Gordon  turned,  lean-loined  and  active, 
and  trod  with  crisp,  confident  step  back  to  the 
hotel.  He  had  said  all  that  was  necessary  to  say. 

Two  men  standing  on  the  porch  nodded  a 
good-evening  to  him.  Gordon,  about  to  pass, 
glanced  at  them  again.  They  were  Northrup 
and  Trelawney,  two  of  the  miners  who  had  had 
trouble  with  Macdonald  on  the  boat. 

On  impulse  he  stopped.  "Found  work  yet?" 
he  asked. 

"Found  a  job  and  lost  it  again,"  Northrup 
answered  sullenly. 

"Too  bad." 

"Macdonald  passed  the  word  along  that  we 
were  n't  to  get  work.  So  our  boss  fired  us.  The 
whole  district  is  closed  to  us.  We  been  black 
listed,"  explained  Trelawney. 

"And  we're  busted,"  added  his  mate. 

Elliot  was  always  free-handed.  Perhaps  he 
felt  just  now  unusually  sympathetic  towards 
these  victims  of  the  high-handed  methods  of 
Macdonald.  From  his  pocket  he  took  a  small 
leather  purse  and  gave  a  piece  of  gold  to  each  of 
them. 

"Just  as  a  loan  to  carry  you  for  a  couple  of 
175 


The  Yukon  Trail 

days  till  you  get  something  to  do."  he  suggested. 

Northrup  demurred,  but  after  a  little  pres 
sure  accepted  the  accommodation. 

"I  pay  you  soon  back,"  he  promised. 

Trelawney  laughed  recklessly.  He  had  been 
drinking. 

"You  bet.   Me  too." 

His  companion  flashed  a  look  of  warning  at 
him  and  explained  that  they  were  going  down  the 
river  to  look  for  work  outside  of  the  district. 

Suddenly  Trelawney  broke  loose  and  began 
to  curse  Macdonald  with  a  bitterness  that  sur 
prised  the  Government  agent.  What  struck  him 
most,  though,  was  the  obvious  anxiety  of  North 
rup  to  quiet  his  partner  and  to  gloss  over  what 
he  had  said.  Thinking  of  it  later,  Gordon  won 
dered  why  the  Dane,  who  had  as  much  cause  to 
hate  Macdonald  as  the  other,  should  be  at  such 
pains  to  smooth  down  the  man  and  explain 
away  his  threats. 

Elliot  bought  an  automatic  revolver  next 
morning  and  a  box  of  cartridges.  He  was  not 
looking  for  trouble,  but  he  intended  to  be  pre 
pared  for  it  when  trouble  came  looking  for  him. 
With  a  rifle  he  was  a  fair  shot,  but  he  lacked 
experience  with  the  revolver.  In  the  afternoon 
he  walked  out  of  town  and  practiced  shooting 
at  tin  cans  for  a  half  an  hour.  On  his  way  back 
he  met  Peter  Paget. 

176 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  engineer  came  straight  to  the  subject  in 
his  mind. 

"Selfridge  came  to  see  me  last  night.  He  told 
me  about  the  trouble  between  you  and  Mac- 
donald,  Gordon.  You  must  leave  town  till  he 
cools  down.  Macdonald  is  a  bad  man  with  a 
gat." 

"Is  he?" 

"You  can  drop  down  the  river  on  business 
for  a  few  weeks.  After  a  while  — " 

His  friend  looked  at  him  coolly.  "I  can,  but 
I'm  not  going  to.  Where  do  you  get  this  stuff 
about  me  being  a  quitter,  Pete?" 

Peter  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Now,  look 
here,  Gordon.  Don't  be  a  kid  and  foolhardy. 
Duck.  I 'm  your  friend — " 

"You're  his,  too,  are  n't  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  but  — " 

"All  right.  Tell  him  to  duck.  There'll  be  no 
trouble  of  my  making.  But  if  he  starts  any  I'll 
be  there.  Macdonald  does  n't  own  the  earth, 
you  know.  I've  been  sent  up  here  by  Uncle 
Sam  on  business,  and  you  can  bet  your  last  dol 
lar  I'll  stay  on  the  job  till  I'm  through." 

"Of  course  you've  got  to  finish  your  job.  But 
it  does  n't  all  have  to  be  done  right  here.  Just 
for  a  week  or  two  — " 

"Tell  your  friend  something  else  while  you're 
on  the  subject.  If  I  drop  him,  I  go  scot  free  be- 

177 


The  Yukon  Trail 

cause  he  is  interfering  with  me  in  my  duty.  I  '11 
put  Selfridge  on  the  stand  to  prove  it.  But  if 
he  should  kill  me,  his  last  chance  for  getting  the 
Macdonald  claims  patented  would  be  gone.  The 
public  would  raise  such  a  howl  that  the  Admin 
istration  would  have  to  throw  your  friend  and 
the  Guttenchilds  overboard  to  save  itself.  I 
know  that  —  and  Macdonald  knows  it.  So  he 
stands  to  lose  either  way." 

Paget  knew  this  was  true.  He  knew,  too, 
there  was  no  use  in  arguing  with  this  young 
athlete.  That  close-gripped  jaw  and  salient 
chin  did  not  belong  to  a  slacker.  Gordon  would 
stick  and  see  the  thing  out.  But  Peter  could  not 
drop  the  subject  without  one  more  appeal. 

"He's  not  sore  at  you  about  the  claims.  You 
know  that.  It's  because  you  brought  the  squaw 
up  the  river  to  see  Sheba." 

"1  did  n't  bring  her  —  had  n't  a  thing  to  do 
with  that.  I  don't  know  who  brought  her, 
though  I  could  give  a  good  guess." 

A  gleam  of  hope  showed  in  the  eye  of  the 
engineer.  "You  didn't  bring  her?  Diane  said 
you  threatened  — " 

"Maybe  I  did  say  I  would.  Anyhow,  I  thought 
better  of  it.  But  I'm  glad  some  one  had  the 
sense  to  tell  Miss  O'Neill  the  truth." 

"Who  do  you  think  brought  her?  " 

"I'm  not  thinking  on  that  subject  out  loud." 
178 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"But  if  we  could  show  Mac  — " 

"That 'sup  to  you.  I '11  not  lift  a  finger.  Your 
king  of  Kusiak  has  to  learn  some  time  that  every 
body  is  n't  going  to  sidestep  him  and  pussyfoot 
when  he's  around.  I  did  n't  start  this  war  and 
I'm  not  making  any  peace  overtures." 

"You're  as  obstinate  as  the  devil,"  smiled 
Peter,  but  in  his  heart  he  admired  the  dourness 
of  his  friend. 

The  engineer  went  to  Macdonald  and  gave  a 
deleted  version  of  his  talk  with  Elliot.  The 
Scotchman  listened,  a  bitter,  incredulous  smile 
on  his  face. 

"Says  he  did  n't  bring  her,  does  he?  Tell  him 
from  me  that  he  lies.  Your  wife  let  out  to  me  by 
accident  that  he  threatened  to  bring  her.  Me- 
teetse  and  he  came  up  on  the  boat  together. 
He  was  with  her  at  your  house  when  she  told 
her  story.  He's  trying  to  save  his  hide.  No 
chance." 

"Elliot  is  n't  a  liar.  When  he  says  he  did  n't 
bring  the  woman,  that  satisfies  me.  I  know  he 
did  n't  do  it,"  insisted  Paget  stiffly. 

"Different  here.  Who  else  had  any  interest 
in  bringing  her  except  him?  Nobody.  Use  your 
brains,  Peter.  He  takes  the  first  boat  down 
the  river.  He  comes  back  on  the  next  one.  She 
comes  back,  too.  They  could  n't  figure  I  'd  be  at 
your  house  when  they  showed  up  there  to  tell 

179 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  story.  That's  where  Mr.  Elliot  slipped 
up." 

Peter  was  of  different  stuff  from  Selfridge. 
He  had  something  to  say.  So  he  said  it. 

"  Times  have  changed,  Mac.  You  can't  shoot 
down  this  young  fellow  without  making  all  kinds 
of  trouble.  First  thing  we'd  lose  the  claims. 
The  Administration  would  drop  you  like  a  hot 
potato  if  you  did  a  thing  like  that.  Sheba  would 
never  speak  to  you  again.  Your  friends  would 
know  in  their  hearts  it  was  murder.  You  can't 
do  it." 

Macdonald's  jaw  clamped.  "Then  let  him 
get  out.  That's  my  last  word  to  him." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AMBUSHED 

COLBY  MACDONALD,  in  miner's  boots  and 
corduroy  working  suit,  stood  beside  his  horse 
with  one  arm  thrown  carelessly  across  its  rump. 
He  was  about  to  start  for  Seven-Mile  Creek 
Camp  with  twenty-seven  hundred  dollars  in  the 
saddlebags  to  pay  the  men  there. 

Diane  was  talking  with  him.  "She's  young 
and  fine  and  spirited.  Of  course  it  was  a  great 
shock  to  her.  She  had  been  idealizing  you.  But 
I  think  she  is  beginning  to  understand  things 
better.  At  any  rate,  she  does  not  hate  you  any 
more.  Give  the  girl  time." 

"You  think  she  will  —  be  reasonable?" 

Mrs.  Paget  finished  the  pattern  she  was 
punching  in  the  soft  ground  beside  the  board 
walk  with  the  ferrule  of  her  umbrella.  Her  eyes 
met  his  frankly. 

"I  don't  know.  But  I'm  sure  of  one  thing. 
She  '11  not  be  reasonable,  as  you  call  it,  unless  you 
are  reasonable." 

"You  mean  — Elliot?" 

"Yes.  She  likes  him  very  much.  Do  you  know 
that  when  the  Indian  woman  came  he  urged 
Sheba  not  to  listen  to  her  story?" 

181 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Sounds  likely  —  after  he  had  spent  his  good 
money  bringing  her  here,"  sneered  the  mine- 
owner. 

"He  did  n't.  Gordon  is  a  splendid  fellow.  He 
would  n't  lie,"  answered  Diane  hotly.  "And 
one  thing  is  sure  —  if  you  lay  a  finger  on  him  for 
this,  it  will  be  fatal  with  Sheba.  She  will  be 
through  with  you." 

Macdonald  had  thought  of  this  before.  It 
had  been  coming  to  him  from  several  different 
angles  that  he  could  not  afford  to  gratify  his  de 
sire  to  wipe  this  meddlesome  young  official  from 
his  path.  He  made  a  slow,  sulky  promise. 

"All  right.  I'll  let  him  alone.  Peter  can  tell 
him." 

Swinging  to  the  saddle,  he  spurred  his  horse 
and  cantered  away.  With  a  little  smile  Diane 
watched  his  flat,  muscular  back  and  the  arro 
gant  set  of  his  strong  shoulders.  There  was  not 
his  match  in  the  territory,  she  thought,  but  some 
times  a  clever  woman  could  manage  him. 

His  mind  was  full  of  the  problem  that  had 
come  into  his  life.  He  rode  abstractedly,  so  that 
he  was  at  the  lower  ford  of  the  creek  almost 
before  he  knew  it.  A  bilberry  thicket  straggled 
down  to  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream  on 
both  sides  of  the  road. 

The  horse  splashed  through  the  ford  and  took 
the  little  rise  beyond  with  a  rush.  Just  before 

182 


The  Yukon  Trail 

reaching  the  brow  of  the  hill,  the  animal  stum 
bled  and  fell.  As  its  rider  went  headlong,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  cord  drawn  taut  across 
the  path. 

Macdonald,  shaken  by  the  fall,  began  slowly 
to  rise.  From  the  shadows  of  the  bilberry  bushes 
two  stooping  figures  rushed  at  him.  He  threw 
up  an  arm  to  ward  off  the  club  aimed  at  his 
head,  but  succeeded  only  in  breaking  the  force 
of  the  blow.  As  he  staggered  back,  stunned,  a 
bullet  glanced  along  his  forehead  and  ridged  a 
furrow  through  the  thick  hair.  A  second  stroke 
of  the  club  jarred  him  to  the  heels. 

Though  his  mind  was  not  clear,  his  body  an 
swered  automatically  the  instinct  that  told  him 
to  close  with  his  assailants.  He  lurched  for 
ward  and  gripped  one,  wrestling  with  him  for 
the  revolver.  Vaguely  he  knew  by  the  sharp, 
jagged  shoots  of  pain  that  the  second  man  was 
beating  his  head  with  a  club.  The  warm  blood 
dripped  through  his  hair  and  blinded  his  eyes. 
Dazed  and  shaken,  he  yet  managed  to  get  the 
revolver  from  the  man  who  had  it.  But  it  was 
his  last  effort.  He  was  too  far  gone  to  use  it. 
A  blow  on  the  forehead  brought  him  uncon 
scious  to  the  ground  bleeding  from  a  dozen 
wounds. 

On  his  way  back  from  Seven-Mile  Creek  Camp 
Gordon  Elliot  rode  down  to  the  ford.  In  the 

183 


The  Yukon  Trail 

dusk  he  was  almost  upon  them  before  the  rob 
bers  heard  him.  For  a  moment  the  two  men 
stood  gazing  at  him  and  he  at  the  tragedy  be 
fore  him.  One  of  the  men  moved  toward  his 
horse. 

"Stop  there!"  ordered  Gordon  sharply,  and 
he  reached  for  his  revolver. 

The  man  —  it  was  the  miner  Northrup  — 
jumped  for  Elliot  and  the  field  agent  fired.  An 
other  moment,  and  he  was  being  dragged  from 
the  saddle.  What  happened  next  was  never 
clear  to  him.  He  knew  that  both  of  the  bandits 
closed  in  on  him  and  that  he  was  fighting  des 
perately  against  odds.  The  revolver  had  been 
knocked  from  his  hand  and  he  fought  with  bare 
fists  just  as  they  did.  Twice  he  emptied  his 
lungs  in  a  cry  for  help. 

They  quartered  over  the  ground,  for  Gordon 
would  not  let  either  of  them  get  behind  him. 
They  were  larger  than  he,  heavy,  muscle-bound 
giants  of  great  strength,  but  he  was  far  more 
active  on  his  feet.  He  jabbed  and  sidestepped 
and  retreated.  More  than  once  their  heavy 
blows  crashed  home  on  his  face.  His  eyes  dared 
not  wander  from  them  for  an  instant,  but  he 
was  working  toward  a  definite  plan.  As  he 
moved,  his  feet  were  searching  for  the  auto 
matic  he  had  dropped. 

One  of  his  feet,  dragging  over  the  ground, 
184 


The  Yukon  Trail 

came  into  contact  with  the  steel.  With  a  swift 
side  kick  Gordon  flung  the  weapon  a  dozen  feet 
to  the  left.  Presently,  watching  his  chance,  he 
made  a  dive  for  it. 

Trelawney,  followed  by  Northrup,  turned  and 
ran.  One  of  them  caught  Macdonald's  horse 
by  the  bridle.  He  swung  to  the  saddle  and  the 
other  man  clambered  on  behind.  There  was  a 
clatter  of  hoofs  and  they  were  gone. 

Elliot  stooped  over  the  battered  body  that  lay 
huddled  at  the  edge  of  the  water.  The  man  was 
either  dead  or  unconscious,  he  was  not  sure  which. 
So  badly  had  the  face  been  beaten  and  hammered 
that  it  was  not  until  he  had  washed  the  blood 
from  the  wounds  that  Gordon  recognized  Mac- 
donald. 

Opening  the  coat  of  the  insensible  man,  Gordon 
put  his  hand  against  the  heart.  He  could  not  be 
sure  whether  he  felt  it  beating  or  whether  the 
throbbing  came  from  the  pulses  in  his  finger  tips. 
As  well  as  he  could  he  bound  up  the  wounds  with 
handkerchiefs  and  stanched  the  bleeding.  With 
ice-cold  water  from  the  stream  he  drenched  the 
bruised  face.  A  faint  sigh  quivered  through  the 
slack,  inert  body. 

Gordon  hoisted  Macdonald  across  the  saddle 
and  led  the  horse  through  the  ford.  He  walked 
beside  the  animal  to  town,  and  never  had  two 
miles  seemed  to  him  so  far.  With  one  hand  he 

185 


The  Yukon  Trail 

steadied  the  helpless  body  that  lay  like  a  sack 
of  flour  balanced  in  the  trough  of  the  saddle. 

Kusiak  at  last  lay  below  him,  and  when  he  de 
scended  the  hill  to  the  suburbs  almost  the  first 
house  was  the  one  where  the  Pagets  lived. 

Elliot  threw  the  body  across  his  shoulder  and 
walked  up  the  walk  to  the  porch.  He  kicked 
upon  the  door  with  his  foot.  Sheba  answered 
the  knock,  and  at  sight  of  what  he  carried  the 
color  faded  from  her  face. 

"Macdonald  has  been  hurt  —  badly,"  he  ex 
plained  quickly. 

"This  way,"  the  girl  cried,  and  led  him  to  her 
own  room,  hurrying  in  advance  to  throw  back 
the  bedclothes. 

"Get  Diane  —  and  a  doctor,"  ordered  Gordon 
after  he  had  laid  the  unconscious  man  on  the 
white  sheet. 

While  he  and  Diane  undressed  the  mine- 
owner  Sheba  got  a  doctor  on  the  telephone.  The 
wounded  man  opened  his  eyes  after  a  long  time, 
but  there  was  in  them  the  glaze  of  delirium.  He 
recognized  none  of  them.  He  did  not  know  that 
he  was  in  the  house  of  Peter  Paget,  that  Diane 
and  Sheba  and  his  rival  were  fighting  with  the 
help  of  the  doctor  to  push  back  the  death  that 
was  crowding  close  upon  him.  All  night  he  raved, 
and  his  delirious  talk  went  back  to  the  wild 
scenes  of  his  earlier  life.  Sometimes  he  swore  sav- 

186 


The  Yukon  Trail 

agely;  again  he  made  quiet  deadly  threats;  but 
always  his  talk  was  crisp  and  clean  and  vigorous. 
Nothing  foul  or  slimy  came  to  the  surface  in  those 
hours  of  unconscious  babbling. 

The  doctor  had  shaken  his  head  when  he  first 
saw  the  wounds.  He  would  make  no  promises. 

"He's  a  mighty  sick  man.  The  cuts  are  deep, 
and  the  hammering  must  have  jarred  his  brain 
terribly.  If  it  was  anybody  but  Macdonald,  I 
would  n't  give  him  a  chance,"  he  told  Diane 
when  he  left  in  the  morning  to  get  breakfast. 
"But  Macdonald  has  tremendous  vitality.  Of 
course  if  he  lives  it  will  be  because  Mr.  Elliot 
brought  him  in  so  soon." 

Gordon  walked  with  the  doctor  as  far  as  the 
hotel.  A  brown,  thin,  leathery  man  undraped 
himself  from  a  chair  in  the  lobby  when  Elliot 
opened  the  door.  He  was  officially  known  as 
the  chief  of  police  of  Kusiak.  Incidentally  he 
constituted  the  whole  police  force.  Generally 
he  was  referred  to  as  Gopher  Jones  on  account 
of  his  habit  of  spasmodic  prospecting. 

"I  got  to  put  you  under  arrest,  Mr.  Elliot," 
he  explained. 

The  loafers  in  the  hotel  drew  closer. 

"What  for?"  demanded  Gordon,  surprised. 

"Doc  thinks  it  will  run  to  murder,  I  reckon." 

The  field  agent  was  startled.  "You  mean  — 
Macdonald?" 

187 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  brown  man  chewed  his  quid  steadily. 
"You  done  guessed  it." 

"That's  absurd,  you  know.  What  evidence 
have  you  got?" 

"First  off,  you'd  had  trouble  with  him.  It  was 
common  talk  that  when  you  and  Mac  met,  guns 
were  going  to  pop.  You  bought  an  automatic  re 
volver  at  the  Seattle  &  Kusiak  Emporium  two 
days  ago.  You  was  seen  practising  with  it." 

"He  had  threatened  me." 

"You  want  to  be  careful  what  you  say,  Mr. 
Elliot.  It  will  be  used  against  you."  Gopher 
shot  a  squirt  of  tobacco  unerringly  at  the  open 
door  of  the  stove.  :*You  was  seen  talking  with 
Trelawney  and  Northrup.  Money  passed  from 
you  to  them." 

"I  gave  them  a  loan  of  ten  dollars  each  because 
they  were  broke.  Is  that  criminal?"  demanded 
Gordon  angrily. 

"That's  your  story.  You'll  git  a  chance  to  tell 
it  to  the  jury,  I  should  n't  wonder.  Mebbe  they  '11 
believe  it.  You  never  can  tell." 

"Believe  it!  Why,  you  muttonhead,  I  found 
him  where  he  was  bleeding  to  death  and  brought 
him  in." 

"That's  what  I  heard  say.  Kinder  queer, 
ain't  it,  you  happened  to  be  the  man  that  found 
him?" 

"Nothing  queer  about  it.  I  was  riding  in  from 
188 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Seven-Mile  Creek  Camp."  Gordon  was  exasper 
ated,  but  not  at  all  alarmed. 

"So  you  was.  While  you  was  out  at  the  camp, 
you  asked  one  of  the  boys  how  big  the  pay-roll 
would  be." 

"Does  that  prove  I  was  planning  a  hold-up? 
Is  n't  that  the  last  thing  I  would  have  asked  if 
I  had  intended  robbery?" 

"Don't  ask  me.  I  ain't  no  psychologist.  All 
I  know  is  you  took  an  interest  in  the  bank-roll 
on  the  way." 

"I'm  here  for  the  Government  investigating 
Macdonald.  I  was  getting  information  —  earn 
ing  my  pay.  Can  you  understand  that?" 

Gopher  chewed  his  cud  impassively.  "Sure 
I  can,  and  I  been  earning  mine.  By  the  way, 
howcome  you  to  be  beat  up  so  bad,  Mr.  Elliot?" 

"I  had  a  fight  with  the  robbers." 

"Sure  it  was  n't  with  the  robbed.  That  split 
lip  of  yours  looks  to  me  plumb  like  Mac's  John 
Hancock." 

Elliot  flushed  angrily.  "Of  course  if  you  in 
tend  to  believe  me  guilty  — " 

"Now,  there  ain't  no  manner  o'  use  in  gettin' 
het  up,  young  fellow.  Mebbe  you  did  it;  mebbe 
you  did  n't.  Anyhow,  you  '11  gimme  that  gat 
you  been  toting  these  last  few  days." 

Gordon's  hand  moved  toward  his  hip.  Then 
he  remembered. 

189 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"I  have  n't  it.  I  left  it—" 

"You  left  it  at  the  ford  —  with  one  shell 
empty.  That's  where  you  left  it,"  interrupted 
the  officer. 

"Yes.   I  fired  at  Northrup  as  he  rushed  me." 

"Um-hu,"  assented  Jones,  impudent  unbe 
lief  in  his  eye.  "At  Northrup  or  at  Macdonald." 

"What  do  you  think  I  did  with  the  money, 
then?  Did  I  eat  it?" 

"Not  so  you  could  notice  it.  Since  you  put  it 
to  me  flat-foot,  you  gave  it  to  your  pardners. 
You  did  n't  want  it.  They  did.  They  have  got 
the  horse  too  —  and  they're  hitting  the  high 
spots  to  make  their  get-away." 

Elliot  was  locked  up  in  the  flimsy  jail  with 
out  breakfast.  He  was  furious,  but  as  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  narrow  beat  beside  the  bed 
his  anger  gave  way  to  anxiety.  Surely  the  Pagets 
could  not  believe  he  had  done  such  a  thing.  And 
Sheba  —  would  she  accept  as  true  this  weight 
of  circumstantial  evidence  that  was  piling  up 
against  him? 

It  could  all  be  explained  so  easily.  And  yet  — 
the  facts  fitted  like  links  of  a  chain  to  condemn 
him.  He  went  over  them  one  by  one.  The  bab 
bling  tongue  of  Self  ridge  that  had  made  com 
mon  gossip  of  the  impending  tragedy  in  which 
he  and  Macdonald  were  the  principals  —  his 
purchase  of  the  automatic  —  his  public  meeting 

190 


The  Yukon  Trail 

with  two  known  enemies  of  the  Scotchman, 
during  which  he  had  been  seen  to  give  them 
money  —  his  target  practice  with  the  new  re 
volver  —  the  unhappy  chance  that  had  taken 
him  out  to  Seven-Mile  Creek  Camp  the  very  day 
of  the  robbery  —  his  casual  questions  of  the 
miners  —  even  the  finding  of  the  body  by  him. 
All  of  these  dovetailed  with  the  hypothesis  that 
his  partners  in  crime  were  to  escape  and  bear 
the  blame,  while  he  was  to  bring  the  body  back 
to  town  and  assume  innocence. 

Paget  was  admitted  to  his  cell  later  in  the 
morning  by  Gopher  Jones.  He  shook  hands 
with  the  prisoner.  Jones  retired. 

"Tough  luck,  Gordon,"  the  engineer  said. 

"What  does  Sheba  think?"  asked  the  young 
man  quickly. 

"We  have  n't  told  her  you  have  been  arrested. 
I  heard  it  only  a  little  while  ago." 

"And  Diane?" 

;<Yes,  she  knows." 

"Well?"  demanded  Gordon  brusquely. 

Peter  looked  at  him  in  questioning  surprise. 
"Well,  what?"  He  caught  the  meaning  of  his 
friend.  "Try  not  to  be  an  ass,  Gordon.  Of 
course  she  knows  the  charge  is  ridiculous." 

The  chip  dropped  from  the  young  man's 
shoulder.  "Good  old  Diane.  I  might  have 
known,"  he  said  with  a  new  cheerfulness. 

191 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"I  think  you  might  have,"  agreed  Peter  dryly. 
"By  the  way,  have  you  had  any  breakfast?" 

"No.   I'm  hungry,  come  to  think  of  it." 

"I'll  have  something  sent  in  from  the  hotel." 

"How'sMacdonald?" 

"He's  alive — and  while  there's  life  there  is 
hope." 

"Any  news  of  the  murderers?"  asked  Gordon. 

"Posses  are  combing  the  hills  for  them.  They 
stole  a  packhorse  from  a  truck  gardener  up  the 
valley.  It  seems  they  bought  an  outfit  for  a  month 
yesterday  —  said  they  were  going  prospecting." 

They  talked  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  mainly 
on  the  question  of  a  lawyer  and  the  chances  of 
getting  out  on  bond.  Peter  left  the  prisoner  in 
very  much  better  spirits  than  he  had  found  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"GOD  SAVE  YOU  KINDLY" 

A  NURSE  from  the  hospital  had  relieved  Diane 
and  Sheba  at  daybreak.  They  slept  until  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  then  under  orders  from 
the  doctor  walked  out  to  take  the  air.  They 
were  to  divide  the  night  watch  between  them 
and  he  said  that  he  wanted  them  fit  for  service. 
The  fever  of  the  patient  was  subsiding.  He 
slept  a  good  deal,  and  in  the  intervals  between 
had  been  once  or  twice  quite  rational. 

The  thoughts  of  the  cousins  drew  their  steps 
toward  the  jail.  Sheba  looked  at  Diane. 

"Will  they  let  us  see  him,  do  you  think?'* 

"Perhaps.   We  can  try." 

Gopher  Jones  was  not  proof  against  the  brisk 
confidence  with  which  Mrs.  Paget  demanded 
admittance.  He  stroked  his  unshaven  chin  while 
he  chewed  his  quid,  then  reluctantly  got  his  keys. 

The  prisoner  was  sitting  on  the  bed.  His 
heart  jumped  with  gladness  when  he  looked  up. 

Diane  shook  hands  cheerfully.  "How  is  the 
criminal?" 

"Better  for  hearing  your  kind  voice,"  he  an 
swered. 

His  eyes  strayed  to  the  ebon-haired  girl  in  the 
193 


The  Yukon  Trail 

background.  They  met  a  troubled  smile,  grave 
and  sweet. 

"Awfully  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  me,"  he 
told  Sheba  gratefully.  "How  is  Macdonald?" 

"Better,  we  hope.    He  knew  Diane  this  after 


noon." 


Mrs.  Paget  did  most  of  the  talking,  but  Gor 
don  contributed  his  share.  Sheba  did  not  say 
much,  but  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that 
there  was  a  new  tenderness  in  her  manner,  the 
expression  of  a  gentle  kindness  that  went  out 
to  him  because  he  needed  it.  The  walk  had 
whipped  the  color  into  her  cheeks  and  she 
bloomed  in  that  squalid  cell  like  a  desert  rose. 
There  was  in  the  fluent  grace  of  the  slender,  young 
body  a  naive,  virginal  sweetness  that  took  him 
by  the  throat.  He  knew  that  she  believed  in  him 
and  the  trouble  rolled  from  his  heart  like  a  cold, 
heavy  wave. 

"We  haven't  talked  to  Mr.  Macdonald  yet 
about  the  attack  on  him,"  Diane  explained. 
"But  he  must  have  recognized  the  men.  There 
are  many  footprints  at  the  ford,  showing  how 
they  moved  over  the  ground  as  they  fought. 
So  he  could  not  have  been  unconscious  from 
the  first  blow." 

"  Unless  they  were  masked  he  must  have  known 
them.  It  was  light  enough,"  agreed  Elliot. 

"Peter  is  still  trying  to  get  the  officers  to 
194 


The  Yukon  Trail 

accept  bail,  but  I  don't  think  he  will  succeed. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  feeling  in  town  against 
you." 

"Because  I  am  supposed  to  be  an  enemy  to  an 
open  Alaska,  I  judge." 

"Mainly  that.  Wally  Selfridge  has  been  talk 
ing  a  good  deal.  He  takes  it  for  granted  that 
you  are  guilty.  We'll  have  to  wait  in  patience 
till  Mr.  Macdonald  speaks  and  clears  you.  The 
doctor  won't  let  us  mention  the  subject  to  him 
until  he  comes  to  it  of  his  own  free  will." 

Gopher  stuck  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "You'll 
have  to  go,  ladies.  Time's  up." 

When  Sheba  bade  the  prisoner  good-bye  it 
was  with  a  phrase  of  the  old  Irish  vernacular. 
"God  save  you  kindly." 

He  knew  the  peasant's  answer  to  the  wish  and 
gave  it.  "And  you  too." 

The  girl  left  the  prison  with  a  mist  in  her  eyes. 
Her  cousin  looked  at  her  with  a  queer,  ironic 
little  smile  of  affection.  To  be  in  trouble  was  a 
sure  passport  to  the  sympathy  of  Sheba.  Now 
both  her  lovers  were  in  a  sad  way.  Diane  won 
dered  which  of  them  would  gain  most  from  this 
new  twist  of  fate. 

Sheba  turned  to  Mrs.  Paget  with  an  impulsive 
little  burst  of  feminine  ferocity.  "Why  do  they 
put  him  in  prison  when  they  must  know  he  did 
n't  do  it  —  that  he  could  n't  do  such  a  thing?  " 

195 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"They  don't  all  know  as  well  as  you  do  how 
noble  he  is,  my  dear,"  answered  Diane  dryly. 

"But  it's  just  absurd  to  think  that  he  would 
plan  the  murder  of  a  man  he  has  broken  bread 
with  for  a  few  hundred  dollars." 

Diane  flashed  another  odd  little  glance  in  the 
direction  of  her  cousin.  Probably  Sheba  was 
the  one  woman  in  Kusiak  who  did  not  know  that 
Macdonald  had  served  an  ultimatum  on  Elliot 
to  get  out  or  fight  and  that  their  rivalry  over 
her  favor  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  difficulty 
between  them. 

"It  will  work  out  all  right,"  promised  the 
older  cousin. 

Returning  from  their  walk,  they  met  Wally 
Selfridge  coming  out  of  the  Paget  house. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Macdonald?"  asked  Diane. 

"Yes.  He's  quite  rational  now."  There  was  a 
jaunty  little  strut  of  triumph  in  Wally's  cock 
sure  manner. 

Mrs.  Paget  knew  he  had  made  himself  very 
busy  securing  evidence  against  Gordon.  He  was 
probably  trying  to  curry  favor  with  his  chief. 
The  little  man  always  had  been  jealous  of  Peter. 
Perhaps  he  was  attempting  to  rap  him  over 
the  shoulder  of  Elliot  because  the  Government 
official  was  a  friend  of  Paget.  Just  now  his  in 
solent  voice  suggested  a  special  cause  for  exul 
tation. 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  reason  Wally  was  so  pleased  with  himself 
was  that  he  had  dropped  a  hint  into  the  ear  of 
the  wounded  man  not  to  clear  Elliot  of  complic 
ity  in  the  attack  upon  him.  The  news  that  the 
special  investigator  had  been  arrested  for  rob 
bery  and  attempted  murder,  flashed  all  over 
the  United  States,  would  go  far  to  neutralize 
any  report  he  might  make  against  the  validity 
of  the  Macdonald  claims.  If  to  this  could  be 
added  later  reports  of  an  indictment,  a  trial, 
and  possibly  a  conviction,  it  would  not  matter 
two  straws  what  Elliot  said  in  his  official  state 
ment  to  the  Land  Office. 

Since  the  attack  upon  his  chief,  Selfridge  had 
moved  on  the  presumption  that  Elliot  had  been 
in  a  conspiracy  to  get  rid  of  him.  He  accepted 
the  guilt  of  the  field  agent  because  this  theory 
jumped  with  the  interest  of  Wally  and  his 
friends.  As  a  politician  he  intended  to  play  this 
new  development  for  all  it  was  worth. 

He  had  been  shocked  at  the  sight  of  Mac 
donald.  The  terrible  beating  and  the  loss  of 
blood  had  sapped  all  the  splendid,  vital  strength 
of  the  Scotchman.  His  battered  head  was 
swathed  in  bandages,  but  the  white  face  was 
bruised  and  disfigured.  The  wounded  man  was 
weak  as  a  kitten;  only  the  steady  eyes  told  that 
he  was  still  strong  and  unconquered. 

"I  want  to  talk  business  for  a  minute,  Miss 
197 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Sedgwick.  Will  you  please  step  out?"  said 
Macdonald  to  his  nurse. 

She  hesitated.   "The  doctor  says  —  " 

"Do  as  I  say,  please." 

The  nurse  left  them  alone.  Wally  told  the 
story  of  the  evidence  against  Elliot  in  four  sen 
tences.  His  chief  caught  the  point  at  once. 

After  Selfridge  had  gone,  the  wounded  man 
lay  silent  thinking  out  his  programme.  Not  for 
a  moment  did  he  doubt  that  he  was  going  to 
live,  and  his  brain  was  already  busy  planning 
for  the  future.  By  some  freak  of  luck  the  cards 
had  been  stacked  by  destiny  in  his  favor.  He 
knew  now  that  in  the  violence  of  his  anger 
against  Elliot  he  had  made  a  mistake.  To  have 
killed  his  rival  would  have  been  fatal  to  the 
Kamatlah  coal  claims,  would  have  alienated  his 
best  friends,  and  would  have  prejudiced  hope 
lessly  his  chances  with  Sheba.  Fate  had  been 
kind  to  him.  He  had  been  in  the  wrong  and  it 
had  put  him  in  the  right.  By  the  same  cut  of  the 
cards  young  Elliot  had  been  thrust  down  from 
an  impregnable  position  to  one  in  which  he  was 
a  discredited  suspect.  With  all  this  evidence 
to  show  that  he  had  conspired  against  Mac 
donald,  his  report  to  the  Department  would  be 
labor  lost. 

Diane  came  into  the  sick-room  stripping  her 
gloves  after  the  walk.  Macdonald  smiled  feebly 

198 


The  Yukon  Trail 

at  her  and  fired  the  first  shot  of  his  campaign 
to  defeat  the  enemy. 

"Has  Elliot  been  captured  yet?"  he  asked 
weakly. 

The  keen  eyes  of  his  hostess  fastened  upon  him. 
"Captured!  What  do  you  mean?  It  was  Gor 
don  Elliot  that  brought  you  in  and  saved  your 
life." 

"Brought  me  from  where?" 

"From  where  he  found  you  unconscious  —  at 
the  ford." 

"That's  his  story,  is  it?" 

Macdonald  shut  his  eyes  wearily,  but  his  in 
credulous  voice  had  suggested  a  world  of  in 
nuendo. 

The  young  woman  stood  with  her  gloves 
crushed  tight  in  both  hands.  It  was  her  nature 
to  be  always  a  partisan.  Without  any  reserve 
she  was  for  Gordon  in  this  new  fight  upon  him. 
What  had  Wally  Selfridge  been  saying  to  Mac 
donald?  She  longed  mightily  to  ask  the  sick 
man  some  questions,  but  the  orders  of  the  doc 
tor  were  explicit.  Did  the  mine-owner  mean  to 
suggest  that  he  had  identified  Elliot  as  one  of 
his  assailants?  The  thing  was  preposterous. 

And  yet  —  that  was  plainly  what  he  had 
meant  to  imply.  If  he  told  such  a  story,  things 
would  go  hard  with  Gordon.  In  court  it  would 
clinch  the  case  against  him  by  supplying  the 

199 


The  Yukon  Trail 

one  missing  link  in  the  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence. 

Diane,  in  deep  thought,  frowned  down  upon 
the  wounded  man,  who  seemed  already  to  have 
fallen  into  a  light  sleep.  She  told  herself  that 
this  was  some  of  Wally  Selfridge's  deviltry.  Any 
how,  she  would  talk  it  over  with  Peter. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

GORDON   SPENDS   A   BUSY   EVENING 

PAGET  smoked  placidly,  but  the  heart  within 
him  was  troubled.  It  looked  as  if  Selfridge  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  frame  Gordon  for  a  prison 
sentence.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  need  not 
invent  any  evidence  or  take  any  chances.  If 
Macdonald  came  through  on  the  stand  with  an 
identification  of  Elliot  as  one  of  his  assailants, 
the  young  man  would  go  down  the  river  to  serve 
time.  There  was  enough  corroborative  testi 
mony  to  convict  St.  Peter  himself. 

It  all  rested  with  Macdonald  —  and  the  big 
Scotch-Canadian  was  a  very  uncertain  quan 
tity.  His  whole  interests  were  at  one  in  favor 
of  getting  Elliot  out  of  the  way.  On  the  other 
hand  —  how  far  would  he  go  to  save  the  Kamat- 
lah  claims  and  to  remove  this  good-looking  rival 
from  his  path?  Peter  could  not  think  he  would 
stoop  to  perjury  against  an  innocent  man. 

"I'm  just  telling  you  what  he  said,"  Diane 
explained.  "And  it  worried  me.  His  smile  was 
cynical.  I  could  n't  help  thinking  that  if  he 
wants  to  get  even  with  Gordon  — " 

Mrs.  Paget  stopped.  The  maid  had  just 
brought  into  the  room  a  visitor.  Diane  moved 

201 


The  Yukon  Trail 

forward  and  shook  hands  with  him.    "How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Strong?  Take  this  big  chair." 

Hanford  Strong  accepted  the  chair  and  a 
cigar.  Though  a  well-to-do  mine-owner,  he  wore 
as  always  the  rough  clothes  of  a  prospector.  He 
came  promptly  to  the  object  of  his  call. 

"I  don't  know  whether  this  is  where  I  should 
have  come  or  not.  Are  you  folks  for  young 
Elliot  or  are  you  for  Selfridge?"  he  demanded. 

"If  you  put  it  that  way,  we're  for  Elliot," 
smiled  Peter. 

"All  right.  Let  me  put  it  another  way.  You 
work  for  Mac.  Are  you  on  his  side  or  on  Elliot's 
in  this  matter  of  the  coal  claims?" 

Diane  looked  at  Peter.  He  took  his  time  to 
answer. 

"We  hope  the  coal  claimants  will  win,  but 
we've  got  sense  enough  to  see  that  Gordon  is 
in  here  to  report  the  facts.  That's  what  he  is 
paid  for.  He  '11  tell  the  truth  as  he  sees  it.  If  his 
superior  officers  decide  on  those  facts  against 
Macdonald,  I  don't  see  that  Elliot  is  to  blame." 

"That's  how  it  looks  to  me,"  agreed  Strong. 
"I'm  for  a  wide-open  Alaska,  but  that  don't 
make  it  right  to  put  this  young  fellow  through 
for  a  crime  he  did  n't  do.  Lots  of  folks  think  he 
did  it.  That 'sail  right.  I  know  he  did  n't.  Fact 
is,  I  like  him.  He 's  square.  So  I  Ve  come  to  tell 
you  something." 

202 


The  Yukon  Trail 

He  smoked  for  a  minute  silently  before  he 
continued. 

"I've  got  no  evidence  in  his  favor,  but  I 
bumped  into  something  a  little  while  ago  that 
did  n't  look  good  to  me.  You  know  I  room  next 
him  at  the  hotel.  I  heard  a  noise  in  his  room, 
and  I  thought  that  was  funny,  seeing  as  he  was 
locked  up  in  jail.  So  I  kinder  listened  and  heard 
whispers  and  the  sound  of  some  one  moving 
about.  There's  a  door  between  his  room  and 
mine  that  is  kept  locked.  I  looked  through  the 
keyhole,  and  in  Elliot's  room  there  was  Wally 
Selfridge  and  another  man.  They  were  looking 
through  papers  at  the  desk.  Wally  put  a  stack 
of  them  in  his  pocket  and  they  went  out  locking 
the  door  behind  them." 

"They  had  no  business  doing  that,"  burst  out 
Diane.  "Wally  Selfridge  is  n't  an  officer  of  the 
law." 

Strong  nodded  dryly  to  her.  "Just  what  I 
thought.  So  I  followed  them.  They  went  to 
Macdonald's  offices.  After  awhile  Wally  came 
out  and  left  the  other  man  there.  Then  pres 
ently  the  lights  went  out.  The  man  is  camped 
there  for  the  night.  Will  you  tell  me  why?" 

"Wrhy?"  repeated  Diane  with  her  sharp  eyes 
on  the  miner. 

"Because  Wally  has  some  papers  there  he 
don't  want  to  get  away  from  him." 

203 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Some  of  Gordon's  papers,  of  course/' 

"You've  said  it." 

"All  his  notes  and  evidence  in  the  case  of  the 
coal  claims  probably,"  contributed  Peter. 

"Maybe.  Wally  has  stole  them,  but  he  has  n't 
nerve  enough  to  burn  them  till  he  gets  orders 
from  Mac.  So  he's  holding  them  safe  at  the  of 
fice,"  guessed  Strong. 

"It's  an  outrage,"  Diane  decided  promptly. 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Wally  has  fixed  it 
to  frame  him  for  prison  and  to  play  safe  about 
his  evidence  on  the  coal  claims." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  Diane 
asked  her  husband  sharply. 

Peter  rose.  "First  I  'm  going  to  see  Gordon  and 
hear  what  he  has  to  say.  Come  on,  Strong.  We 
may  be  gone  quite  a  while,  Diane.  Don't  wait  up 
for  me  if  you  get  through  your  stint  of  nursing." 

Roused  from  sleep,  Gopher  Jones  grumbled  a 
good  deal  about  letting  the  men  see  his  prisoner. 
"You  got  all  day,  ain't  you,  without  traipsing 
around  here  nights.  Don't  you  figure  I  'm  enti 
tled  to  any  rest?" 

But  he  let  them  into  the  ramshackle  building 
that  served  as  a  jail,  and  after  three  dollars  had 
jingled  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  he  stepped  out 
side  and  left  the  men  alone  with  his  prisoner.  The 
three  put  their  heads  together  and  whispered. 

"I'll  meet  you  outside  the  house  of  Self  ridge 
204 


The  Yukon  Trail 

in  half  an  hour,  Strong,"  was  the  last  thing  that 
Gordon  said  before  Jones  came  back  to  order 
out  the  visitors. 

As  soon  as  the  place  was  dark  again,  Gordon 
set  to  work  on  the  flimsy  framework  of  his  cell 
window.  He  knew  already  it  was  so  decrepit 
that  he  could  escape  any  time  he  desired,  but 
until  now  there  had  been  no  reason  why  he 
should.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  lifted 
the  iron-grilled  sash  bodily  from  the  frame  and 
crawled  through  the  window. 

He  found  Paget  and  Strong  waiting  for  him 
in  the  shadows  of  a  pine  outside  the  yard  of  Sel- 
f  ridge. 

"To  begin  with,  you  walk  straight  home  and 
go  to  bed,  Peter,"  the  young  man  announced. 
;<You're  not  in  this.  You're  not  invited  to  our 
party.  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  why,  do  I?" 

The  engineer  understood  the  reason.  He  was 
an  employee  of  Macdonald,  a  man  thoroughly 
trusted  by  him.  Even  though  Gordon  intended 
only  to  right  a  wrong,  it  was  better  that  Paget 
should  not  be  a  party  to  it.  Reluctantly  Peter 
went  home. 

Gordon  turned  to  Strong.  "I  owe  you  a  lot 
already.  There's  no  need  for  you  to  run  a  risk 
of  getting  into  trouble  for  me.  If  things  break 
right,  I  can  do  what  I  have  to  do  without  help." 

"And  if  they  don't?"  Strong  waved  an  im- 
205 


The  Yukon  Trail 

patient  hand.  "Cut  it  out,  Elliot.  I've  taken 
a  fancy  to  go  through  with  this.  I  never  did 
like  Selfridge  anyhow,  and  I  ain't  got  a  wife  and 
I  don't  work  for  Mae.  Why  the  hell  should  n't 
I  have  some  fun?" 

Gordon  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "All  right. 
Might  as  well  play  ball  and  get  things  moving, 
then." 

The  little  miner  knocked  at  the  door.  Wally 
himself  opened.  Elliot,  from  the  shelter  of  the 
pine,  saw  the  two  men  in  talk.  Selfridge  shut 
the  door  and  came  to  the  edge  of  the  porch. 
He  gave  a  gasp  and  his  hands  went  trembling 
into  the  air.  The  six-gun  of  the  miner  had  been 
pressed  hard  against  his  fat  paunch.  Under  curt 
orders  he  moved  down  the  steps  and  out  of  the 
yard  to  the  tree. 

At  sight  of  Gordon  the  eyes  of  Wally  stood 
out  in  amazement.  Little  sweat  beads  burst 
out  on  his  forehead,  for  he  remembered  how 
busy  he  had  been  collecting  evidence  against 
this  man. 

"W-w-what  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"Got  your  keys  with  you?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Come  with  us." 

Wally  breathed  more  freely.  For  a  moment 
he  had  thought  this  man  had  come  to  take  sum 
mary  vengeance  on  him. 

206 


The  Yukon  Trail 

They  led  him  by  alleys  and  back  streets  to  the 
office  of  the  Macdonald  Yukon  Trading  Com 
pany.  Under  orders  he  knocked  on  the  door  and 
called  out  who  he  was.  Gordon  crouched  close 
to  the  log  wall,  Strong  behind  him. 

"Let  me  in,  Olson,"  ordered  Selfridge  again. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  man  stood  on  the 
threshold.  Elliot  was  on  top  of  him  like  a  pan 
ther.  The  man  went  down  as  though  his  knees 
were  oiled  hinges.  Before  he  could  gather  his 
slow  wits,  the  barrel  of  a  revolver  was  shoved 
against  his  teeth. 

"Take  it  easy,  Olson,"  advised  Gordon.  "Get 
up  —  slowly.  Now,  step  back  into  the  office. 
Keep  your  hands  up." 

Strong  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind 
them. 

"I  want  my  papers,  Selfridge.  Dig  up  your 
keys  and  get  them  for  me,"  Elliot  commanded. 

Wally  did  not  need  any  keys.  He  knew  the 
combination  of  the  safe  and  opened  it.  From 
an  inner  drawer  he  drew  a  bunch  of  papers. 
Gordon  looked  them  over  carefully.  Strong  sat 
on  a  table  and  toyed  with  a  revolver  which  he 
jammed  playfully  into  the  stomach  of  his  fat 
prisoner. 

"All  here,"  announced  the  field  agent. 

The  safe-robbers  locked  their  prisoners  in  the 
office  and  disappeared  into  the  night.  They 

207 


The  Yukon  Trail 

stopped  at  the  house  of  the  collector  of  customs, 
a  genial  young  fellow  with  whom  Elliot  had 
played  tennis  a  good  deal,  and  left  the  papers 
in  his  hands  for  safe-keeping.  After  which  they 
returned  to  the  hotel  and  reached  the  second 
floor  by  way  of  the  back  stairs  used  by  the  serv 
ants. 

Here  they  parted,  each  going  to  his  own  room. 
Gordon  slept  like  a  schoolboy  and  woke  only 
when  the  sun  poured  through  the  window  upon 
his  bed  in  a  broad  ribbon  of  warm  gold. 

He  got  up,  bathed,  dressed,  and  went  down 
into  the  hotel  dining-room.  The  waiters  looked 
at  him  in  amazement.  Presently  the  cook  peered 
in  at  him  from  the  kitchen  and  the  clerk  made 
an  excuse  to  drop  into  the  room.  Gordon  ate 
as  if  nothing  were  the  matter,  apparently  un 
aware  of  the  excitement  he  was  causing.  He  paid 
not  the  least  attention  to  the  nudging  and  the 
whispering.  After  he  had  finished  breakfast, 
he  lit  a  cigar,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
smoked  placidly. 

Presently  an  eruption  of  men  poured  into  the 
room.  At  the  head  of  them  was  Gopher  Jones. 
Near  the  rear  Wally  Selfridge  lingered  modestly. 
He  was  not  looking  for  hazardous  adventure. 

"Whad  you  doing  here?"  demanded  Gopher, 
bristling  up  to  Elliot. 

The  young  man  watched  a  smoke  wreath  float 
2QS 


The  Yukon  Trail 

ceilingward  before  he  turned  his  mild  gaze  on  the 
chief  of  police. 

"I'm  smoking." 

"Don't  you  know  we  just  got  in  from  hunting 
you  —  two  posses  of  us  been  out  all  night?" 
Gopher  glared  savagely  at  the  smoker. 

Gordon  looked  distressed.  "That's  too  bad. 
There's  a  telephone  in  my  room,  too.  Why 
did  n't  you  call  up?  I've  been  there  all  night." 

"The  deuce  you  have,"  exploded  Jones.  "And 
us  combing  the  hills  for  you.  Young  man,  you  're 
mighty  smart.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you'll 
pay  for  this." 

"Did  you  want  me  for  anything  in  particular 
—  or  just  to  get  up  a  poker  game?"  asked  El 
liot  suavely. 

The  leader  of  the  posse  gave  himself  to  a  job 
of  scientific  profanity.  He  was  spurred  on  to 
outdo  himself  because  he  had  heard  a  titter 
or  two  behind  him.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
formed  a  procession.  He,  with  Elliot  hand 
cuffed  beside  him,  was  at  the  head  of  it.  It 
marched  to  the  jail. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SHEBA   DOES   NOT   THINK   SO 

THE  fingers  of  Sheba  were  busy  with  the  em 
broidery  upon  which  she  worked,  but  her 
thoughts  were  full  of  the  man  who  lay  asleep 
on  the  lounge.  His  strong  body  lay  at  ease, 
relaxed. 

Already  health  was  flowing  back  into  his  veins. 
Beneath  the  tan  of  the  lean,  muscular  cheeks 
a  warmer  color  was  beginning  to  creep.  Soon  he 
would  be  about  again,  vigorous  and  forceful, 
striding  over  obstacles  to  the  goal  he  had  set 
himself. 

Just  now  she  was  the  chief  goal  of  his  desire. 
Sheba  did  not  deceive  herself  into  thinking  that 
he  had  for  a  moment  accepted  her  dismissal  of 
him. 

He  still  meant  to  marry  her,  and  he  had  told 
her  so  in  characteristic  way  the  day  after  their 
break. 

Sheba  had  sent  him  a  check  for  the  amount 
he  had  paid  her  and  had  refused  to  see  him  or 
anybody  else. 

Shamed  and  humiliated,  she  had  kept  to  her 
room.  The  check  had  come  back  to  her  by  mail. 

210 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Across  the  face  of  it  he  had  written  in  his  strong 
handwriting:  — 

I  don't  welsh  on  my  bets.  You  can't  give 
to  me  what  is  not  mine. 

Do  not  think  for  an  instant  that  I  shall  not 
marry  you. 

Watching  him  now,  she  wondered  what  man 
ner  of  man  he  was.  There  had  been  a  day  or 
two  when  she  had  thought  she  understood  him. 
Then  she  had  learned,  from  the  story  of  Me- 
teetse,  how  far  his  world  of  thought  was  from 
hers.  That  which  to  her  had  put  a  gulf  between 
them  was  to  him  only  an  incident. 

She  moved  to  adjust  a  window  blind  and  when 
she  returned  found  that  his  steady  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her. 

"You're  getting  better  fast,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

The  girl  had  a  favor  to  ask  of  him  and  lest 
her  courage  fail  she  plunged  into  it. 

"Mr.  Macdonald,  if  you  say  the  word  Mr. 
Elliot  will  be  released  on  bail.  I  am  thinking 
you  will  be  so  good  as  to  say  it." 

His  narrowed  eyes  held  a  cold  glitter.  "  Why?  " 

;<  You  must  know  he  is  innocent.  You  must — " 

"I  know  only  what  the  evidence  shows,"  he 
cut  in,  warily  on  his  guard.  "He  may  or  may 
not  have  been  one  of  my  attackers.  From  the 

211 


The  Yukon  Trail 

first  blow  I  was  dazed.  But  everything  points 
to  it  that  he  hired  — " 

"Oh,  no!"  interrupted  the  Irish  girl,  her  dark 
eyes  shining  softly.  "The  way  of  it  is  that  he 
saved  your  life,  that  he  fought  for  you,  and  that 
he  is  in  prison  because  of  it." 

"If  that  is  true,  why  does  n't  he  bring  some 
proof  of  it?" 

"Proof!"  she  cried  scornfully.  "Between 
friends —  ' 

"He's  no  friend  of  mine.  The  man  is  a  med 
dler.  I  despise  him." 

The  scarlet  flooded  her  cheeks.  "And  I  am 
liking  him  very,  very  much,"  she  flung  back 
stanchly. 

Macdonald  looked  up  at  the  vivid,  flushed 
face  and  found  it  wholly  charming.  He  liked 
her  none  the  less  because  her  fine  eyes  were  hot 
and  defiant  in  behalf  of  his  rival. 

"Very  well,"  he  smiled.  "I'll  get  him  out  if 
you'll  do  me  a  good  turn  too." 

"Thank  you.  It's  a  bargain." 

"Then  sing  to  me." 

She  moved  to  the  piano.  "  What  shall  I  sing?  " 

"Sing*  Divided.'" 

The  long  lashes  veiled  her  soft  eyes  while  she 
considered.  In  a  way  he  had  tricked  her  into 
singing  for  him  a  love-song  she  did  not  want  to 
sing.  But  she  made  no  protest.  Swiftly  she 

212 


The  Yukon  Trail 

turned  and  slid  along  the  bench.  Her  fingers 
touched  the  keys  and  she  began. 

He  watched  the  beauty  and  warmth  of  her 
dainty  youth  with  eyes  that  mirrored  the  hunger 
of  his  heart.  How  buoyantly  she  carried  her 
dusky  little  head!  With  what  a  gallant  spirit 
she  did  all  things !  He  was  usually  a  frank  pagan, 
but  when  he  was  with  her  it  seemed  to  him  that 
God  spoke  through  her  personality  all  sorts  of 
brave,  fine  promises. 

Sheba  paid  her  pledge  in  full.  After  the  first 
two  stanzas  were  finished  she  sang  the  last  ones 
as  well:  — 

"  An*  what  about  the  wather  when 

I  'd  have  ould  Paddy's  boat, 
Is  it  me  that  would  be  feared  to 

grip  the  oars  an'  go  afloat? 
Oh,  I  could  find  him  by  the  light 

of  sun  or  moon  or  star: 
But  there 's  caulder  things  than  salt  waves 
between  us,  so  they  are. 
Och  anee! 

"  Sure  well  I  know  he  '11  never  have 

the  heart  to  come  to  me, 
An*  love  is  wild  as  any  wave 

that  wanders  on  the  sea, 
'T  is  the  same  if  he  is  near  me, 

't  is  the  same  if  he  is  far: 
His  thoughts  are  hard  an'  ever  hard 
between  us,  so  they  are. 
Och  anee!" 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Her  hands  dropped  from  the  keys  and  she 
turned  slowly  on  the  end  of  the  seat.  The  dark 
lashes  fell  to  her  hot  cheeks.  He  did  not  speak, 
but  she  felt  the  steady  insistence  of  his  gaze. 
In  self-defense  she  looked  at  him. 

The  pallor  of  his  face  lent  accent  to  the  fire 
that  smouldered  in  his  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  you,  Sheba.  Make  up 
your  mind  to  that,  girl,"  he  said  harshly. 

There  was  infinite  pity  in  the  look  she  gave 
him.  "'There's  caulder  things  than  salt  waves 
between  us,  so  they  are,' "  she  quoted. 

"Not  if  I  love  you  and  you  love  me.  By  God, 
I  trample  down  everything  that  comes  between 
us." 

He  swung  to  a  sitting  position  on  the  lounge. 
Through  the  steel-gray  eyes  in  the  brooding 
face  his  masterful  spirit  wrestled  with  hers.  A 
lean-loined  Samson,  with  broad,  powerful  shoul 
ders  and  deep  chest,  he  dominated  his  world  ruth 
lessly.  But  this  slim  Irish  girl  with  the  young, 
lissom  body  held  her  own. 

"Must  we  go  through  that  again?"  she  asked 
gently. 

"Again  and  again  until  you  see  reason." 

She  knew  the  tremendous  driving  power  of  the 
man  and  she  was  afraid  in  her  heart  that  he 
would  sweep  her  from  the  moorings  to  which 
she  clung. 

214 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"There  is  something  else  I  have  n't  told  you." 
The  embarrassed  lashes  lifted  bravely  from  the 
flushed  cheeks  to  meet  steadily  his  look.  "I 
don't  think  —  that  I  —  care  for  you.  'T  is  I 
that  am  shamed  at  my  —  fickleness.  But  I  don't 
—  not  with  the  full  of  my  heart." 

His  bold,  possessive  eyes  yielded  no  fraction 
of  all  they  claimed.  "Time  enough  for  that, 
Sheba.  Truth  is  that  you're  afraid  to  let  your 
self  love  me.  You're  worried  because  you  can't 
measure  me  by  the  little  two-by-four  foot-rule 
you  brought  from  Ireland  with  you." 

Sheba  nodded  her  dusky  little  head  in  naive 
candor.  "I  think  there  will  be  some  truth  in  that, 
Mr.  Macdonald.  You're  lawless,  you  know." 

"  I  'm  a  law  to  myself,  if  that 's  what  you  mean. 
It  is  my  business  to  help  hammer  out  an  empire 
in  this  Northland.  If  I  let  my  work  be  clut 
tered  up  by  all  the  little  rules  made  by  little 
men  for  other  little  ones,  my  plans  would  come 
to  a  standstill.  I  am  a  practical  man,  but  I  keep 
sight  of  the  vision.  No  need  for  me  to  brag. 
What  I  have  done  speaks  for  me  as  a  guidepost 
to  what  I  mean  to  do." 

"I  know,"  the  girl  admitted  with  the  impetu 
ous  generosity  of  her  race.  "I  hear  it  from  every 
body.  You  have  built  towns  and  railroads  and 
developed  mines  and  carried  the  twentieth  cen 
tury  into  new  outposts.  You  have  given  work 

215 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  thousands.  But  you  go  so  fast  I  can't  keep 
step  with  you.  I  am  one  of  the  little  folks  for 
whom  laws  were  made." 

"Then  I'll  make  a  new  code  for  you,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "Just  do  as  I  say  and  everything  will 
come  out  right." 

Faintly  her  smile  met  his.  "My  grandmother 
might  have  agreed  to  that.  But  we  live  in  a  new 
world  for  women.  They  have  to  make  their  own 
decisions.  I  suppose  that  is  a  part  of  the  pen 
alty  we  pay  for  freedom." 

Diane  came  into  the  room  and  Macdonald 
turned  to  her. 

"I  have  just  been  telling  Sheba  that  I  am  go 
ing  to  marry  her  —  that  there  is  no  escape  for 
her.  She  had  better  get  used  to  the  idea  that  I 
intend  to  make  her  happy." 

The  older  cousin  glanced  at  Sheba  and  laughed 
with  a  touch  of  embarrassment.  "  Whether  she 
wants  to  be  happy  or  not,  O  Cave  Man?" 

"I'm  going  to  make  her  want  to." 

Sheba  fled,  but  from  the  door  she  flung  back 
her  challenge.  "I  don't  think  so." 


CHAPTER  XX 

GORDON   FINDS   HIMSELF   UNPOPULAR 

MACDONALD  kept  his  word  to  Sheba.  He 
used  his  influence  to  get  Elliot  released,  and 
with  a  touch  of  cynicism  quite  characteristic 
went  on  the  bond  of  his  rival.  An  information 
was  filed  against  the  field  agent  of  the  Land  De 
partment  for  highway  robbery  and  attempted 
murder,  but  Gordon  went  about  his  business  just 
as  if  he  were  not  under  a  cloud. 

None  the  less,  he  walked  the  streets  a  marked 
man.  Women  and  children  looked  at  him  curi 
ously  and  whispered  as  he  passed.  The  sullen, 
hostile  eyes  of  miners  measured  him  silently. 
He  was  aware  that  feeling  had  focused  against 
him  with  surprising  intensity  of  resentment,  and 
he  suspected  that  the  whispers  of  Wally  Selfridge 
were  largely  responsible  for  this. 

For  Wally  saw  to  it  that  in  the  minds  of  the 
miners  Elliot  in  his  own  person  stood  for  the 
enemies  of  the  open-Alaska  policy.  He  scat 
tered  broadcast  garbled  extracts  from  the  first 
preliminary  report  of  the  field  agent,  and  in  the 
coal  camps  he  spread  the  impression  that  the 
whole  mining  activities  of  the  Territory  would 
be  curtailed  if  Elliot  had  his  way. 

217 


The  Yukon  Trail 

In  the  States  the  fight  between  the  coal  claim 
ants  and  their  foes  was  growing  more  bitter. 
The  muckrakers  were  busy,  and  the  sentiment 
outside  had  settled  so  definitely  against  granting 
the  patents  that  the  National  Administration 
might  at  any  time  jettison  Macdonald  and  his 
backers  as  a  sop  to  public  opinion. 

It  was  not  hard  for  Gordon  to  guess  how  un 
popular  he  was,  but  he  did  not  let  this  interfere 
with  his  activities.  He  moved  to  and  fro  among 
the  mining  camps  with  absolute  disregard  of  the 
growing  hatred  against  him. 

Paget  came  to  him  at  last  with  a  warning. 

"What's  this  I  hear  about  you  being  almost 
killed  up  on  Bonanza?"  Peter  wanted  to 
know. 

"Down  in  the  None  Such  Mine,  you  mean? 
It  did  seem  to  be  raining  hammers  as  I  went 
down  the  shaft,"  admitted  his  friend. 

"Were  the  hammers  dropped  on  purpose?" 

Gordon  looked  at  him  with  a  grim  smile. 
"Your  guess  is  just  as  good  as  mine,  Peter. 
What  do  you  think?" 

Peter  answered  seriously.  "I  think  it  is  n't 
safe  for  you  to  take  the  chances  you  do,  Gordon. 
I  find  a  wrong  impression  about  you  prevalent 
among  the  men.  They  are  blaming  you  for 
stirring  up  all  this  trouble  on  the  outside,  and 
they  are  worried  for  fear  the  mines  may  close 

218 


The  Yukon  Trail 

and  they  will  lose  their  jobs.  I  tell  you  that 
they  are  in  a  dangerous  mood." 

"Sorry,  but  I  can't  help  that." 

"You  can  stay  around  town  and  not  go  out 
alone  nights,  can't  you?" 

"I  dare  say  I  can,  but  I'm  not  going  to." 

"Some  of  these  men  are  violent.  They  don't 
think  straight  about  you  — " 

"Kindness  of  Mr.  Selfridge,"  contributed 
Gordon. 

"Perhaps.  Anyhow,  there's  a  lot  of  sullen 
hate  brewing  against  you.  Don't  invite  an  ex 
plosion.  That  would  be  just  kid  foolhardiness." 

"You  think  I'd  better  buy  another  automatic 
gat,"  said  Elliot  with  a  grin. 

"I  think  you  had  better  use  a  little  sense, 
Gordon.  I  dare  say  I  am  exaggerating  the  dan 
ger.  But  when  you  go  around  with  that  jaunty, 
devil-may-care  way  of  yours,  the  men  think 
you  are  looking  for  trouble  —  and  you're  likely 
to  get  it." 

"Ami?" 

"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  Nine  out 
of  ten  of  the  men  think  you  tried  to  murder 
Macdonald  after  you  had  robbed  him  and  that 
your  nerve  weakened  on  the  job.  This  seems  to 
some  of  the  most  lawless  to  give  them  a  moral 
right  to  put  you  out  of  the  way.  Anyhow,  it  is  a 
kind  of  justification,  according  to  their  point  of 

219 


The  Yukon  Trail 

view.    I  'm  not  defending  it,  of  course.  I  'm  tell 
ing  you  so  that  you  can  appreciate  your  danger." 
"You  have  done  your  duty,  then,  Peter." 
"But  you  don't  intend  to  take  my  advice?" 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I  told  you  last  time  when 
you  warned  me.  I'm  going  through  with  the  job 
I've  been  hired  to  do,  just  as  you  would  stick 
it  out  in  my  place.    I  don't  think  I'm  in  much 
danger.   Men  in  general  are  law-abiding.   They 
growl,  but  they  don't  go  as  far  as  murder." 

Peter  gave  him  up.  After  all,  the  chances 
were  that  Gordon  was  right.  Alaska  was  not  a 
lawless  country.  And  it  might  be  that  the  best 
way  to  escape  peril  was  to  walk  through  it  with 
a  grin  as  if  it  did  not  exist. 

The  next  issue  of  the  Kusiak  "Sun"  contained 
a  bitter  editorial  attack  upon  Elliot.  The  occa 
sion  for  it  was  a  press  dispatch  from  Washing 
ton  to  the  effect  that  the  pressure  of  public 
opinion  had  become  so  strong  that  Winton,  Com 
missioner  of  the  General  Land  Office,  might  be 
forced  to  resign  his  place.  This  was  a  blow  to 
the  coal  claimants,  and  the  "Sun"  charged  in 
vitriolic  language  that  the  reports  of  Elliot  were 
to  blame.  He  was,  the  newspaper  claimed,  an 
enemy  to  all  those  who  had  come  to  Alaska  to 
earn  an  honest  living  there.  Under  indictment 
for  attempted  murder  and  for  highway  robbery, 
this  man  was  not  satisfied  with  having  tried  to 

220 


The  Yukon  Trail 

kill  from  ambush  the  best  friend  Alaska  had 
ever  known.  In  every  report  that  he  sent  to 
Washington  he  was  dealing  underhanded  blows 
at  the  prosperity  of  Alaska.  He  was  a  snake  in 
the  grass,  and  as  such  every  decent  man  ought 
to  hold  him  in  scorn. 

Elliot  read  this  just  as  he  was  leaving  for  the 
Willow  Creek  Camp.  He  thrust  the  paper  im 
patiently  into  his  coat  pocket  and  swung  to 
the  saddle.  Why  did  they  persecute  him?  He 
had  told  nothing  but  the  truth,  nothing  not  re 
quired  of  him  by  the  simplest,  elemental  honesty. 
Yet  he  was  treated  as  an  outcast  and  a  criminal. 
The  injustice  of  it  was  beginning  to  rankle. 

He  was  temperamentally  an  optimist,  but  de 
pression  rode  with  him  to  the  gold  camp  and 
did  not  lift  from  his  spirits  till  he  started  back 
next  day  for  Kusiak.  The  news  had  been  flashed 
by  wire  all  over  the  United  States  that  he  was 
a  crook.  His  friends  and  relatives  could  give  no 
adequate  answer  to  the  fact  that  an  indictment 
hung  over  his  head.  In  Alaska  he  was  already 
convicted  by  public  opinion.  Even  the  Pagets 
were  lined  up  as  to  their  interests  with  Mac- 
donald.  Sheba  liked  him  and  believed  in  him. 
Her  loyal  heart  acquitted  him  of  all  blame.  But 
it  was  to  the  wooing  of  his  enemy  that  she  had 
listened  rather  than  to  his.  The  big  Scotchman 
had  run  against  a  barrier,  but  his  rival  expected 


The  Yukon  Trail 

him  to  trample  it  down.  He  would  wear  away 
the  scruples  of  Sheba  by  the  pressure  of  his  mas 
terful  will. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  while  Gordon  was  still 
fifteen  miles  from  Kusiak,  his  horse  fell  lame. 
He  led  it  limping  to  the  cabin  of  some  miners. 

There  were  three  of  them,  and  they  had  been 
drinking  heavily  from  a  jug  of  whiskey  left 
earlier  in  the  day  by  the  stage-driver.  Gordon 
was  in  two  minds  whether  to  accept  their  surly 
permission  to  stay  for  the  night,  but  the  lame 
ness  of  his  horse  decided  him. 

Not  caring  to  invite  their  hostility,  he  gave 
his  name  as  Gordon  instead  of  Elliot.  He  was 
to  learn  within  the  hour  that  this  was  mistake 
number  two. 

From  a  pocket  of  the  coat  he  had  thrown 
on  a  bed  protruded  the  newspaper  Gordon  had 
brought  from  Kusiak.  One  of  the  men,  a  big 
red-headed  fellow,  pulled  it  out  and  began  sulk 
ily  to  read. 

While  he  read  the  other  two  bickered  and  drank 
and  snarled  at  each  other.  All  three  of  the  men 
were  in  that  stage  of  drunkenness  when  a  quarrel 
is  likely  to  flare  up  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"Listen  here,"  demanded  the  man  with  the 
newspaper.  "Tell  you  what,  boys,  I'm  going 
to  wring  the  neck  of  that  pussyfooting  spy  Elliot 
if  I  ever  get  a  chanct." 


The  Yukon  Trail 

He  read  aloud  the  editorial  in  the  "Sun." 
After  he  had  finished,  the  others  joined  him  in  a 
chorus  of  curses. 

"I  always  did  hate  a  spy  —  and  this  one's 
a  murderer  too.  Why  don't  some  one  fill  his 
hide  with  lead?"  one  of  the  men  wanted  to 
know. 

Redhead  was  sitting  at  the  table.  He  thumped 
a  heavy  fist  down  so  hard  that  the  tin  cups 
jumped.  "Gimme  a  crack  at  him  and  I'll  show 
you,  by  God." 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  room.  In  the  door 
way  stood  a  newcomer.  Gordon  had  a  sensa 
tion  as  if  a  lump  of  ice  had  been  drawn  down 
his  spine.  For  the  man  who  had  just  come  in 
was  Big  Bill  Macy,  and  he  was  looking  at  the 
field  agent  with  eyes  in  which  amazement,  anger, 
and  triumph  blazed. 

"I'm  glad  to  death  to  meet  up  with  you  again, 
Mr.  Elliot,"  he  jeered.  "Seems  like  old  times 
on  Wild-Goose." 

"Whad  you  say  his  name  is?"  cut  in  the  man 
with  the  newspaper. 

"Has  n't  he  introduced  himself,  boys?"  Macy 
answered  with  a  cruel  grin.  "Now,  ain't  that 
modest  of  him?  You  lads  are  entertaining  that 
well-known  deteckative  and  spy  Gordon  Elliot, 
that  renowned  king  of  hold-ups  — " 

The  red-headed  man  interrupted  with  a  howl 
223 


The  Yukon  Trail 

of  rage.  "If  you 're  telling  it  straight,  Bill  Macy, 
I'll  learn  him  to  spy  on  me." 

Elliot  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  beds.  He  had 
not  moved  an  inch  since  Macy  had  appeared, 
but  the  brain  behind  his  live  eyes  was  taking 
stock  of  the  situation.  Big  Bill  blocked  the 
doorway.  The  table  was  in  front  of  the  window. 
Unless  he  could  fight  his  way  out,  there  was  no 
escape  for  him.  He  was  trapped. 

Quietly  Gordon  looked  from  one  to  another. 
He  read  no  hope  in  the  eyes  of  any. 

"I'm  not  spying  on  you.  My  horse  is  lame. 
You  can  see  that  for  yourself.  All  I  asked  was  a 
night's  lodging." 

"Under  another  name  than  your  own,  you 
damned  sneak." 

The  field  agent  did  not  understand  the  fury 
of  the  man,  because  he  did  not  know  that  these 
miners  were  working  the  claim  under  a  defec 
tive  title  and  that  they  had  jumped  to  the  con 
clusion  that  he  had  come  to  get  evidence  against 
them.  But  he  knew  that  never  in  his  life  had  he 
been  in  a  tighter  hole.  In  another  minute  they 
would  attack  him.  Whether  it  would  run  to 
murder  he  could  not  tell.  At  the  best  he  would 
be  hammered  helpless. 

But  no  evidence  of  this  knowledge  appeared 
in  his  manner. 

"I  did  n't  give  my  last  name  because  there  is 


The  Yukon  Trail 

a  prejudice  against  me  in  this  country,"  he  ex 
plained  in  an  even  voice. 

He  wondered  as  he  spoke  if  he  had  better  try 
to  fling  himself  through  the  window  sash.  There 
might  be  a  remote  chance  that  he  could  make  it. 

The  miner  at  the  table  killed  this  possibility 
by  rising  and  standing  squarely  in  the  road. 

"Look  out!     He's  got  a  gat,"  warned  Macy. 

Gordon  fervently  wished  he  had.  But  he  was 
unarmed.  While  his  eyes  quested  for  a  weapon 
he  played  for  time. 

"You  can't  get  away  with  this,  you  know.  The 
United  States  Government  is  back  of  me.  It's 
known  I  left  the  Willow  Creek  Camp.  I'll  be 
traced  here." 

Through  Gordon's  mind  there  flashed  a  word 
of  advice  once  given  him  by  a  professional  prize 
fighter:  "If  you  get  in  a  rough  house,  don't  wait 
for  the  other  fellow  to  hit  first." 

They  were  crouching  for  the  attack.  In  another 
moment  they  would  be  upon  him.  Almost  with 
one  motion  he  stooped,  snatched  up  by  the  leg  a 
heavy  stool,  and  sprang  to  the  bed  upon  which 
he  had  been  sitting. 

The  four  men  closed  with  him  in  a  rush.  They 
came  at  him  low,  their  heads  protected  by  up 
lifted  arms.  His  memory  brought  to  him  a  pic 
ture  of  the  whitewashed  gridiron  of  a  football 
field,  and  in  it  he  saw  a  vision  of  safety. 

225 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  stool  crashed  down  upon  Big  Bill  Macy's 
head.  Gordon  hurdled  the  crumpling  figure, 
plunged  between  hands  outstretched  to  seize 
him,  and  over  the  table  went  through  the  win 
dow,  taking  the  flimsy  sash  with  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  NEW  WAY   OF   LEAVING   A   HOUSE 

THE  surge  of  disgust  with  which  Sheba  had 
broken  her  engagement  to  marry  Macdonald 
ebbed  away  as  the  weeks  passed.  It  was  impossi 
ble  for  her  to  wait  upon  him  in  his  illness  and 
hold  any  repugnance  toward  this  big,  elemental 
man.  The  thing  he  had  done  might  be  wrong, 
but  the  very  openness  and  frankness  of  his  rela 
tion  to  Meteetse  redeemed  it  from  shame.  He 
was  neither  a  profligate  nor  a  squawman. 

This  was  Diane's  point  of  view,  and  in  time  it 
became  to  a  certain  extent  that  of  Sheba.  One 
takes  on  the  color  of  one's  environment,  and  the 
girl  from  Drogheda  knew  in  her  heart  that 
Meteetse  and  Colmac  were  no  longer  the  real 
barriers  that  stood  between  her  and  the  Alaskan. 
She  had  been  disillusioned,  saw  him  more  clearly; 
and  though  she  still  recognized  the  quality  of  big 
ness  that  set  him  apart,  her  spirit  did  not  now 
do  such  complete  homage  to  it.  More  and  more 
her  thoughts  contrasted  him  with  another  man. 

Macdonald  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  he  had 
lost  ground,  but  with  the  dogged  determination 
that  had  carried  him  to  success  he  refused  to  ac 
cept  the  verdict.  She  was  a  woman,  therefore 

227 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  be  won.  The  habit  of  victory  was  so  strong  in 
him  that  he  could  see  no  alternative. 

He  embarrassed  her  with  his  downright  atten 
tions,  hemmed  her  in  with  courtesies  she  could 
not  evade.  If  she  appealed  to  her  cousin,  Diane 
only  laughed. 

"My  dear,  you  might  as  well  make  up  your 
mind  to  him.  He  is  going  to  marry  you,  willy- 
nilly." 

Sheba  herself  began  to  be  afraid  he  would. 
There  was  something  dominant  and  masterful 
about  the  man  that  swept  opposition  aside.  He 
had  a  way  of  getting  what  he  wanted. 

The  motor-car  picnic  to  the  Willow  Creek 
Camp  was  a  case  in  point.  Sheba  did  not  want 
to  go,  but  she  went.  She  would  much  rather  have 
sat  in  the  rear  seat  with  Diane,  —  at  least,  she 
persuaded  herself  that  she  would,  —  yet  she  occu 
pied  the  place  beside  Macdonald  in  front.  The 
girl  was  a  rebel.  Still,  in  her  heart,  she  was  not 
wholly  reluctant.  He  made  a  strong  appeal  to  her 
imagination.  She  felt  that  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  any  girl  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
wooing  of  such  a  man. 

The  picnic  was  a  success.  Macdonald  was  an 
outdoor  man  rather  than  a  parlor  one.  He  took 
charge  of  the  luncheon,  lit  the  fire,  and  cooked 
the  coffee  without  the  least  waste  of  effort.  In 
his  shirt-sleeves,  the  neck  open  at  the  throat,  he 


The  Yukon  Trail 

looked  the  embodiment  of  masculine  vigor. 
Diane  could  not  help  mentioning  it  to  her  cousin. 

"Is  n't  he  a  splendid  human  animal?" 

Sheba  nodded.    "He's  wonderful." 

"If  I  were  a  little  Irish  colleen  and  he  had  done 
me  the  honor  to  care  for  me,  I'd  have  fallen 
fathoms  deep  in  love  with  him." 

The  Irish  colleen's  eyes  grew  reflective.  "Not 
if  you  had  seen  Peter  first,  Di.  There 's  nothing 
reasonable  about  a  girl,  I  do  believe.  She  loves 
—  or  else  she  just  does  n't." 

Diane  fired  a  question  at  her  point-blank. 
"Have  you  met  your  Peter?  Is  that  why  you 
hang  back?" 

The  color  flamed  into  Sheba's  face.  "Of  course 
not.  You  do  say  the  most  outrageous  things,  Di." 

They  had  driven  to  Willow  Creek  over  the 
river  road.  They  returned  by  way  of  the  hills. 
Macdonald  drew  up  in  front  of  a  cabin  to  fill  the 
radiator. 

He  stood  listening  beside  the  car,  the  water 
bucket  in  his  hand.  Something  unusual  was  going 
on  inside  the  house.  There  came  the  sound  of  a 
thud,  of  a  groan,  and  then  the  crash  of  breaking 
glass.  The  whole  window  frame  seemed  to  leap 
from  the  side  of  the  house.  The  head  and  shoul 
ders  of  a  man  projected  through  the  broken  glass. 

The  man  swept  himself  free  of  the  debris  and 
started  to  run.  Instantly  he  pulled  up  in  his 

229 


The  Yukon  Trail 

stride,  as  amazed  to  see  those  in  the  car  as  they 
were  to  see  him. 

"Gordon!"  cried  Diane. 

Out  of  the  house  poured  a  rush  of  men.  They 
too  pulled  up  abruptly  at  sight  of  Macdonald 
and  his  guests. 

A  sardonic  mirth  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Scotchman.  "Do  you  always  come  out  of  a 
house  through  the  wall,  Mr.  Elliot?"  he  asked. 

"Only  when  I'm  in  a  hurry."  Gordon  pulled 
out  a  handkerchief  and  dabbed  at  some  glass- 
cuts  on  his  face. 

"Don't  let  us  detain  you,"  said  the  Alaskan 
satirically.  "We'll  excuse  you,  since  you  must 

go" 

"I'm  not  in  such  a  hurry  now.  In  fact,  if 
you're  going  to  Kusiak,  I  think  I'll  ask  you  for 
a  lift,"  returned  the  field  agent  coolly. 

"And  your  friends-in-a-hurry  —  do  they  want 
a  lift  too?" 

Big  Bill  Macy  came  swaying  forward,  both 
hands  to  his  bleeding  head.  "He's  a  spy,  curse 
him.  And  he  tried  to  kill  me." 

"Did  he?"  commented  Macdonald  evenly. 
"What  were  you  doing  to  him?" 

"He  can't  sneak  around  our  claim  under  a 
false  name,"  growled  one  of  the  miners.  "We'll 
beat  his  damn  head  off." 

"I  Ve  had  notions  like  that  myself  sometimes," 
230 


The  Yukon  Trail 

assented  the  big  Scotchman.  "But  I  think  we 
had  all  better  leave  Mr.  Elliot  to  the  law.  He  has 
Uncle  Sam  back  of  him  in  his  spying,  and  none 
of  us  are  big  enough  to  buck  the  Government." 
Crisply  Macdonald  spoke  to  Gordon,  turning 
upon  him  cold,  hostile  eyes.  "Get  in  if  you're 
going  to." 

Elliot  met  him  eye  to  eye.  "I've  changed  my 
mind.  I'm  going  to  walk." 

"That 'sup  to  you." 

Gordon  shook  hands  with  Diane  and  Sheba, 
went  into  the  house  for  his  coat,  and  walked  to 
the  stable.  He  brought  out  his  horse  and  turned 
it  loose,  then  took  the  road  himself  for  Kusiak. 

A  couple  of  miles  out  the  car  passed  him  trudg 
ing  townward.  As  they  flashed  down  the  road 
he  waved  a  cheerful  and  nonchalant  greeting. 

Sheba  had  been  full  of  gayety  and  life,  but  her 
mood  was  changed.  All  the  way  home  she  was 
strangely  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

GID   HOLT   COMES   TO   KUSIAK 

THE  days  grew  short.  In  sporting  circles  the 
talk  was  no  longer  of  the  midnight  Fourth  of 
July  baseball  game,  but  of  preparation  for  the 
Alaska  Sweepstakes,  since  the  shadow  of  the  cold 
Arctic  winter  had  crept  down  to  the  Yukon  and 
touched  its  waters  to  stillness.  Men,  gathered 
around  warm  stoves,  spoke  of  the  merits  of  hus 
kies  and  Siberian  wolf-hounds,  of  the  heavy  fall 
of  snow  in  the  hills,  of  the  overhauling  of  outfits 
and  the  transportation  of  supplies  to  distant 
camps. 

The  last  river  boat  before  the  freeze-up  had 
long  since  gone.  A  month  earlier  the  same 
steamer  had  taken  down  in  a  mail  sack  the  pre 
liminary  report  of  Elliot  to  his  department  chief. 
One  of  the  passengers  on  that  trip  had  been 
Selfridge,  sent  out  to  counteract  the  influence  of 
the  evidence  against  the  claimants  submitted 
by  the  field  agent.  An  information  had  been 
filed  against  Gordon  for  highway  robbery  and 
attempted  murder.  Wally  was  to  see  that  the 
damning  facts  against  him  were  brought  to  the  at 
tention  of  officials  in  high  places  where  the 
charges  would  do  most  good.  The  details  of 

232 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  story  were  to  be  held  in  reserve  for  publicity 
in  case  the  muckrake  magazines  should  try  to 
make  capital  of  the  report  of  Elliot. 

Kusiak  found  much  time  for  gossip  during  the 
long  nights.  It  knew  that  Macdonald  had  gone 
on  the  bond  of  Elliot  in  spite  of  the  scornful  pro 
test  of  the  younger  man.  The  two  gave  each  other 
chilly  nods  of  greeting  when  they  met,  but  friends 
were  careful  not  to  invite  them  to  the  same  social 
affairs.  The  case  against  the  field  agent  was 
pending.  Pursuit  of  the  miners  who  had  robbed 
the  big  mine-owner  had  long  ago  been  dropped. 
Somewhere  in  the  North  the  outlaws  lay  hid 
den,  swallowed  up  by  the  great  white  waste  of 
snow. 

The  general  opinion  was  that  Mac  was  playing 
politics  about  the  trial  of  his  rival.  He  would  not 
let  the  case  come  to  a  jury  until  the  time  when  a 
conviction  would  have  most  effect  in  the  States, 
the  gossips  predicted.  They  did  not  know  that 
he  was  waiting  for  the  return  of  Wally  Selfridge. 

The  whispers  touched  closely  the  personal 
affairs  of  Macdonald.  The  report  of  his  engage 
ment  to  Sheba  O'Neill  had  been  denied,  but  it 
was  noticed  that  he  was  a  constant  guest  at  the 
home  of  the  Pagets.  Young  Elliot  called  there 
too.  Almost  any  day  one  or  other  of  the  two  men 
could  be  seen  with  Sheba  on  the  street.  Those 
who  wanted  to  take  a  sporting  chance  on  the 

233 


The  Yukon  Trail 

issue  knew  that  odds  were  offered  sub  rosa  at  the 
Pay  Streak  saloon  of  three  to  one  on  Mac. 

As  for  Sheba,  she  rebelled  impotently  at  the 
situation.  The  mine-owner  would  not  take  "  No  " 
for  an  answer.  He  wooed  her  with  a  steady,  dom 
inant  persistence  that  shook  even  her  strong, 
young  will.  There  was  something  resistless  in 
the  way  he  took  her  for  granted.  Gordon  Elliot 
had  not  mentioned  love  to  her,  though  there 
were  times  when  her  heart  fluttered  for  fear  he 
would.  She  did  not  want  any  more  complica 
tions.  She  wanted  to  be  let  alone.  So  when  an 
invitation  came  from  her  little  friends  the  Hus- 
teds,  signed  by  all  three  of  the  children,  asking 
her  to  come  and  visit  them  at  the  camp  back  of 
Katma,  the  Irish  girl  jumped  at  the  chance  to 
escape  for  a  time  from  the  decision  being  forced 
upon  her. 

Sheba  pledged  her  cousin  to  secrecy  until  after 
she  had  gone,  so  that  Miss  O'Neill  was  able  to 
slip  away  on  the  stage  unnoticed  either  by  Mac- 
donald  or  Elliot.  The  only  other  passenger  was 
an  elderly  woman  going  up  to  the  Katma  camp 
to  take  a  place  as  cook. 

Later  on  the  same  day  Wally  Selfridge,  coming 
in  over  the  ice,  reached  Kusiak  with  important 
news  for  his  chief.  He  brought  with  him  an  order 
from  Winton,  Commissioner  of  the  General  Land 
Office,  suspending  Elliot  pending  an  investiga- 

234 


The  Yukon  Trail 

tion  of  the  charges  against  him.  The  field  agent 
was  to  forward  by  mail  all  documents  in  his 
possession  and  for  the  time,  at  least,  drop  the 
matter  of  the  coal  claims. 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  to  Genevieve  Mallory 
that  Macdonald  went  for  consolation  when  he 
learned  that  Sheba  had  left  town.  He  had  always 
found  it  very  pleasant  to  drop  in  for  a  chat  with 
her,  and  she  saw  to  it  that  he  met  the  same 
friendly  welcome  now  that  a  rival  had  annexed 
his  scalp  to  her  slender  waist.  For  Mrs.  Mallory 
did  not  concede  defeat.  If  the  Irish  girl  could  be 
eliminated,  she  believed  she  would  yet  win. 

His  hostess  laced  her  fingers  behind  her  beauti 
ful,  tawny  head,  quite  well  aware  that  the  atti 
tude  set  off  the  perfect  modeling  of  the  soft, 
supple  body.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  mock 
ing  little  smile. 

"Rumor  says  that  she  has  run  away,  my  lord. 
Is  it  true?" 

"Yes.  Slippedaway  on  the  stage  this  morning." 

"That's  a  good  sign.  She  was  afraid  to  stay." 

It  was  a  part  of  the  fiction  between  them  that 
Mrs.  Mallory  was  to  give  him  the  benefit  of  her 
advice  in  his  wooing  of  her  rival.  She  seemed  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  he  would  at  last  marry 
Sheba  after  wearing  away  the  rigid  Puritanism 
of  her  resentment. 

Macdonald  had  never  liked  her  so  well  as  now. 
235 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Her  point  of  view  was  so  sane,  so  reasonable.  It 
asked  for  no  impossible  virtues  in  a  man.  There 
was  something  restful  in  her  genial,  derisive 
understanding  of  him.  She  had  a  silent  divina 
tion  of  his  moods  and  ministered  indolently  to 
them. 

"Do  you  think  so?  Ought  I  to  follow  her?" 
he  asked. 

She  showed  a  row  of  perfect  teeth  in  a  low 
ripple  of  amusement.  The  situation  at  least  was 
piquant,  even  though  it  was  at  her  expense. 

"No.  Give  the  girl  time.  Catch  her  impulse 
on  the  rebound.  She'll  be  bored  to  death  at 
Katma  and  she  will  come  back  docile." 

Her  scarlet  lips,  the  long,  unbroken  lines  of  the 
sinuous,  opulent  body,  the  challenge  of  the  smoul 
dering  eyes,  the  warmth  of  her  laughter,  all  in 
vited  him  to  forget  the  charms  of  other  women. 
The  faint  feminine  perfume  of  her  was  wafted 
to  his  brain.  He  felt  a  besieging  of  the  blood. 

Stepping  behind  the  chair  in  which  she  sat,  he 
tilted  back  the  head  of  lustrous  bronze,  and  very 
deliberately  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

For  a  moment  she  gave  herself  to  his  embrace, 
then  pushed  him  back,  rose,  and  walked  across 
the  room  to  a  little  table.  With  fingers  that  trem 
bled  slightly  she  lit  a  cigarette.  Sheathed  in  her 
close-fitting  gown,  she  made  a  strong  carnal  ap 
peal  to  him,  but  there  was  between  them,  too, 

236 


THE  SITUATION  AT  LEAST  WAS  PIQUANT,  EVEN  THOUGH  IT  WAS 
AT   HER  EXPENSE 


The  Yukon  Trail 

a  close  bond  of  the  spirit.  He  made  no  apologies, 
no  explanation. 

Presently  she  turned  and  looked  at  him.  Only 
the  deeper  color  beneath  her  eyes  betrayed  any 
excitement. 

"Unless  I'm  a  bad  prophet  you'll  get  the  an 
swer  you  want  when  she  comes  back,  Colby." 

He  thought  her  reply  to  his  indiscretion  superb. 
It  admitted  complicity,  reproached,  warned,  and 
at  the  same  time  ignored.  Never  before  had  she 
called  him  by  his  given  name.  He  took  it  as  a 
token  of  forgiveness  and  renunciation. 

Why  was  it  not  Genevieve  Mallory  that  he 
wanted  to  marry?  It  would  be  the  wise  thing  to 
do.  She  would  ask  nothing  of  him  that  he  could 
not  give,  and  she  would  bring  to  him  many  things 
that  he  wanted.  But  he  was  under  the  spell  of 
Sheba's  innocence,  of  the  mystery  of  her  youth, 
of  the  charm  she  had  brought  with  her  from  the 
land  of  fairies  and  banshees.  The  reasonable 
course  made  just  now  not  enough  appeal  to  him. 
He  craved  the  rapture  of  an  impossible  adven 
ture  into  a  world  wonderful. 

The  mine-owner  carried  with  him  back  to  his 
office  a  sense  of  the  futile  irony  of  life.  A  score  of 
men  would  have  liked  to  marry  Mrs.  Mallory. 
She  had  all  the  sophisticated  graces  of  life  and 
much  of  the  natural  charm  of  an  unusually  attrac 
tive  personality.  He  had  only  to  speak  the  word 

237 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  win  her,  and  his  fancy  had  flown  in  pursuit  of 
a  little  Puritan  with  no  knowledge  of  the  world. 

In  front  of  the  Seattle  &  Kusiak  Emporium 
the  Scotchman  stopped.  A  little  man  who  had 
his  back  to  him  was  bargaining  for  a  team  of 
huskies.  The  man  turned,  and  Macdonald  recog 
nized  him. 

"Hello,  Gid.  Are  n't  you  off  your  usual  beat 
a  bit?"  he  asked. 

The  little  miner  looked  him  over  impudently. 
"Well  —  well!  If  it  ain't  the  Big  Mogul  himself 

—  and  wantin'  to  know  if  I  've  got  permission  to 
travel  off  the  reservation." 

Macdonald  laughed  tolerantly.  He  had  that 
large  poise  which  is  not  disturbed  by  the  sand 
stings  of  life. 

"I  reckon  you  travel  where  you  want  to,  Gid, 

—  same  as  I  do." 

"Maybeso.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  you'd  find 
out  quite  soon  enough  what  I  'm  doing  here.  You 
never  can  tell,"  the  old  man  retorted  with  a  man 
ner  that  concealed  volumes. 

Those  who  were  present  remembered  the  words 
and  in  the  light  of  what  took  place  later  thought 
them  significant. 

"Anyhow,  it  is  quite  a  social  event  for  Kusiak," 
Macdonald  suggested  with  a  smile  of  irony. 

Without  more  words  Holt  turned  back  to  his 
bargaining.  The  big  Scotchman  went  on  his 

233 


The  Yukon  Trail 

way,  remembered  that  he  wanted  to  see  the 
cashier  of  the  bank  which  he  controlled,  and 
promptly  forgot  that  old  Gid  existed. 

The  old  man  concluded  his  purchase  and  drove 
up  to  the  hotel  behind  one  of  the  best  dog  teams 
in  Alaska.  He  had  paid  one  hundred  dollars  down 
and  was  to  settle  the  balance  next  day. 

Gideon  asked  a  question  of  the  porter. 

"Second  floor.  That's  his  room  up  there,"  the 
man  answered,  pointing  to  a  window. 

"Oh,  you,  seven  —  eighteen  —  ninety-nine," 
the  little  miner  shouted  up. 

Elliot  appeared  at  the  window.  "Well,  I'll  be 
hanged!  What  are  you  doing  here,  Old-Timer?" 

"Onct  I  knew  a  man  lived  to  be  a  grandpa 
minding  his  own  business,"  grinned  the  little 
man.  "Come  down  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it, 
boy." 

In  half  a  minute  Gordon  was  beside  him.  After 
the  first  greetings  the  young  man  nodded  toward 
the  dog  team. 

"How  did  you  persuade  Tim  Ryan  to  lend  you 
his  huskies?" 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  paper  and  keep  up 
with  the  news,  son?  These  huskies  don't  belong 
to  Tim." 

"  Meaning  that  Mr.  Gideon  Holt  is  the  owner?  " 

"You've  done  guessed  it,"  admitted  the  miner 
complacently. 

239 


The  Yukon  Trail 

He  had  a  right  to  be  proud  of  the  team.  It 
was  a  famous  one  even  in  the  North.  It  had  run 
second  for  two  years  in  the  Alaska  Sweepstakes 
to  Macdonald's  great  Siberian  wolf-hounds.  The 
leader  Butch  was  the  hero  of  a  dozen  races  and 
a  hundred  savage  fights. 

"  What  in  Halifax  do  you  want  with  the  team?  " 
asked  Elliot,  surprised.  "The  whole  outfit  must 
have  cost  a  small  fortune." 

"Some  dust,"  admitted  Gideon  proudly.  He 
winked  mysteriously  at  Gordon.  "I  got  a  use  for 
this  team,  if  any  one  was  to  ask  you." 

"Haven't  taken  the  Government  mail  con 
tract,  have  you?" 

"Not  so  you  could  notice  it.  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  want  with  this  team,  as  the  old  sayin'  is." 
Holt  lowered  his  voice  and  narrowed  slyly  his 
little  beadlike  eyes.  "I'm  going  to  put  a  crimp 
in  Colby  Macdonald.  That's  what  I  aim  to  do 
with  it." 

"How?" 

The  miner  beckoned  Elliot  closer  and  whis 
pered  in  his  ear. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IN    THE   DEAD    OF   NIGHT 

WHILE  Kusiak  slept  that  night  the  wind 
shifted.  It  came  roaring  across  the  range  and 
drove  before  it  great  scudding  clouds  heavily 
laden  with  sleety  snow.  The  howling  storm 
snuffed  out  the  moonlight  as  if  it  had  been  a  tal 
low  dip  and  fought  and  screamed  around  the 
peaks,  whirling  down  the  gulches  with  the  fury 
of  a  blizzard. 

From  dark  till  dawn  the  roar  of  the  wind  filled 
the  night.  Before  morning  heavy  drifts  had 
wiped  out  the  roads  and  sheeted  the  town  in 
virgin  white  unbroken  by  trails  or  furrows. 

With  the  coming  of  daylight  the  tempest 
abated.  Kusiak  got  into  its  working  clothes  and 
dug  itself  out  from  the  heavy  blanket  of  white 
that  had  tucked  it  in.  By  noon  the  business  of 
the  town  was  under  way  again.  That  which 
would  have  demoralized  the  activities  of  a  South 
ern  city  made  little  difference  to  these  Arctic 
Circle  dwellers.  Roads  were  cleared,  paths  shov 
eled,  stores  opened.  Children  in  parkas  and  fur 
coats  trooped  to  school  and  studied  through  the 
short  afternoon  by  the  aid  of  electric  light. 

Dusk  fell  early  and  with  it  came  a  scatter  of 


The  Yukon  Trail 

more  snow.  Mrs.  Self  ridge  gave  a  dinner-dance 
at  the  club  that  night  and  her  guests  came  in  furs 
of  great  variety  and  much  value.  The  hostess 
outdid  herself  to  make  the  affair  the  most  elabo 
rate  of  the  season.  Wally  had  brought  the  favors 
in  from  Seattle  and  also  the  wines.  Nobody  in 
Kusiak  of  any  social  importance  was  omitted 
from  the  list  of  invited  except  Gordon  Elliot. 
Even  the  grumpy  old  cashier  of  Macdonald's 
bank  —  an  old  bachelor  who  lived  by  himself  in 
rooms  behind  those  in  which  the  banking  was 
done  —  was  persuaded  to  break  his  custom  and 
appear  in  a  rusty  old  dress  suit  of  the  vintage 
of  '95. 

The  grizzled  cashier  —  his  name  was  Robert 
Milton  —  left  the  clubhouse  early  for  his  rooms. 
It  was  snowing,  but  the  wind  had  died  down. 
Contrary  to  his  custom,  he  had  taken  two  or 
three  glasses  of  wine.  His  brain  was  excited  so 
that  he  knew  he  could  not  sleep.  He  decided  to 
read  "Don  Quixote"  by  the  stove  for  an  hour  or 
two.  The  heat  and  the  reading  together  would 
make  him  drowsy. 

Arrived  at  the  bank,  he  let  himself  into  his 
rooms  and  locked  the  door.  He  stooped  to  open 
the  draft  of  the  stove  when  a  sound  stopped  him 
halfway.  The  cashier  stood  rigid,  still  crouched, 
waiting  for  a  repetition  of  the  noise.  It  came  once 
more  —  the  low,  dull  rasping  of  a  file. 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Shivers  ran  down  the  spine  of  Milton  and  up 
the  back  of  his  head  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
Somebody  was  in  the  bank  —  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  —  with  tools  for  burglary.  He  was  a 
scholarly  old  fellow,  brought  up  in  New  England 
and  cast  out  to  the  uttermost  frontier  by  the 
malign  tragedy  of  poverty.  Adventure  offered 
no  appeal  to  him.  His  soul  quaked  as  he  waited 
with  slack,  feeble  muscles  upon  the  discovery 
that  only  a  locked  door  stood  between  him  and 
violent  ruffians. 

But  though  his  knees  trembled  beneath  him 
and  the  sickness  of  fear  was  gripping  his  heart, 
Robert  Milton  had  in  him  the  dynamic  spark 
that  makes  a  man.  He  tiptoed  to  his  desk  and 
with  shaking  fingers  gripped  the  revolver  that 
lay  in  a  drawer. 

The  cashier  stood  there  for  a  moment,  mois 
tening  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue  and  trying  to 
swallow  the  lump  that  rose  to  his  throat  and 
threatened  to  stop  his  breathing.  He  braced 
himself  for  the  plunge,  then  slowly  trod  across 
the  room  to  the  inner,  locked  door.  The  palsied 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  could  scarce  turn  the  key. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  night  was  alive  with 
the  noise  he  made  in  turning  the  lock  and  open 
ing  the  door.  The  hinges  grated  and  the  floor 
squeaked  beneath  the  fall  of  his  foot  as  he  stood 
at  the  threshold. 

243 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Two  men  were  in  front  of  the  wire  grating 
which  protected  the  big  safe  that  filled  the  alcove 
to  the  right.  One  held  a  file  and  the  other  a 
candle.  Their  blank,  masked  faces  were  turned 
toward  Milton,  and  each  of  them  covered  him 
with  a  weapon. 

"W-what  are  you  doing  here?"  quavered  the 
cashier. 

"Drop  that  gun,"  came  the  low,  sharp  com 
mand  from  one  of  them. 

Under  the  menace  of  their  revolvers  the  heart 
of  Milton  pumped  water  instead  of  blood.  The 
strength  oozed  out  of  him.  His  body  swayed 
and  he  shut  his  eyes.  A  hand  groped  for  the  case 
ment  of  the  door  to  steady  him. 

"Drop  it  — quick." 

Some  old  ancestral  instinct  in  the  bank  cashier 
rose  out  of  his  panic  to  destroy  him.  He  wanted 
to  lie  down  quietly  in  a  faint.  But  his  mind  as 
serted  its  mastery  over  the  weakling  body.  In 
spite  of  his  terror,  of  his  flaccid  will,  he  had  to 
keep  the  faith.  He  was  guardian  of  the  bank 
funds.  At  all  costs  he  must  protect  them. 

His  forearm  came  up  with  a  jerk.  Two  shots 
rang  out  almost  together.  The  cashier  sagged 
back  against  the  wall  and  slowly  slid  to  the  floor. 

The  guests  of  Mrs.  Self  ridge  danced  well  into 
the  small  hours.  The  California  champagne  that 

244 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Wally  had  brought  in  stimulated  a  gayety  that 
was  balm  to  his  wife's  soul.  She  wanted  her  din 
ner-dance  to  be  smart,  to  have  the  atmosphere  she 
had  found  in  the  New  York  cabarets.  If  every 
body  talked  at  once,  she  felt  they  were  having  a 
good  time.  If  nobody  listened  to  anybody  else, 
it  proved  that  the  affair  was  a  screaming  success. 

Mrs.  Wally  was  satisfied  as  she  bade  her  guests 
good-bye  and  saw  them  pass  into  the  heavy  snow 
that  was  again  falling.  They  all  assured  her  that 
there  had  not  been  so  hilarious  a  party  in  Kusiak. 
One  old-timer,  a  trifle  lit  up  by  reason  of  too 
much  hospitality,  phrased  his  enjoyment  a  little 
awkwardly. 

"It's  been  great,  Mrs.  Self  ridge.  Nothing  like 
it  since  the  days  of  the  open  dance  hall." 

Mrs.  Mallory  hastily  suppressed  an  internal 
smile  and  stepped  into  the  breach.  "How  do  you 
do  it?"  she  asked  her  hostess  enviously. 

"My  dear,  if  you  say  it  was  a  success  — " 

"What  else  could  one  say?" 

Genevieve  Mallory  always  preferred  to  tell 
the  truth  when  it  would  do  just  as  well.  Now  it 
did  better,  since  it  contributed  to  her  own  ironic 
sense  of  amusement.  Macdonald  had  once  told 
her  that  Mrs.  Selfridge  made  him  think  of  the 
saying,  "Monkey  sees,  monkey  does."  The 
effervescent  little  woman  had  never  had  an 
original  idea  in  her  life. 

245 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Most  of  those  who  had  been  at  the  dance  slept 
late.  They  were  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  the 
storm  had  quickened  again  into  a  howling  gale. 
Nor  did  they  know  the  two  bits  of  news  that  were 
passing  up  and  down  the  main  street  and  being 
telephoned  from  house  to  house.  One  of  the  items 
was  that  the  stage  for  Katma  had  failed  to  reach 
the  roadhouse  at  Smith's  Crossing.  The  message 
had  come  over  the  long-distance  telephone  early 
in  the  morning.  The  keeper  of  the  roadhouse 
added  his  private  fears  that  the  stage,  crawling 
up  the  divide  as  the  blizzard  swept  down,  must 
have  gone  astray  and  its  occupants  perished. 
The  second  bit  of  news  was  local.  For  the  first 
time  since  Robert  Milton  had  been  cashier  the 
bank  had  failed  to  open  on  the  dot.  The  snow 
had  not  been  cleared  from  the  walk  in  front  and 
no  smoke  was  pouring  from  the  chimney  of  the 
building. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MACDONALD   FOLLOWS  A   CLUE 

MACDONALD  was  no  sluggard.  It  was  his  habit 
not  to  let  the  pleasure  of  the  night  before  inter 
fere  with  the  business  of  the  morning  after.  But 
in  the  darkness  he  overslept  and  let  the  town 
waken  before  him.  He  was  roused  by  the  sound 
of  knocking  on  his  door. 

"Who  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"  It  's  me  —  Jones  —  Gopher  Jones.  Say,  Mac, 
the  bank  ain't  open  and  we  can't  rouse  Milton. 
Thought  I  'd  come  to  you,  seeing  as  you  're  presi 
dent  of  the  shebang." 

The  mine-owner  got  up  and  began  to  dress. 
"Probably  overslept,  same  as  I  did." 

"That's  the  point.  We  looked  through  the 
window  of  his  bedroom  and  his  bed  ain't  been 
slept  in." 

In  three  minutes  Macdonald  joined  the  mar 
shal  and  walked  down  with  him  to  the  bank. 
He  unlocked  the  front  door  and  turned  to  the 
little  crowd  that  had  gathered. 

"Better  wait  here,  boys.  Gopher  and  I  will  go 
in.  I  expect  everything  is  all  right,  but  we  '11  let 
you  know  about  that  as  soon  as  we  find  out." 

217 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  bank  president  opened  the  door,  let  the 
officer  enter,  and  followed  himself. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen  and  the  blinds  were 
down.  Macdonald  struck  a  match  and  held  it 
up.  The  wood  burned  and  the  flame  flickered 
out. 

"Bank's  been  robbed,"  he  announced  quietly. 

"Looks  like,"  agreed  Jones.  His  voice  was 
uneven  with  excitement. 

The  Scotch-Canadian  lit  another  match.  In 
the  flare  of  it  they  saw  that  the  steel  grill  cutting 
off  the  alcove  was  open  and  that  the  door  had 
been  blown  from  the  safe.  It  lay  on  the  floor 
among  a  litter  of  papers,  silver,  fragments  of 
steel,  and  bits  of  candle. 

The  marshal  clutched  at  the  arm  of  the  banker. 
c'Did  you  see  —  that?"  he  whispered. 

His  finger  pointed  through  the  darkness  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  In  the  faint  gray  light  of 
Doming  day  Macdonald  could  see  a  huddled  mass 
>n  the  floor. 

"There  has  been  murder  done.  I '11  get  a  light. 
Don't  move  from  here,  Jones.  I  want  to  look  at 
things  before  we  disturb  them.  There's  no  dan 
ger.  The  robbers  have  been  gone  for  hours." 

Gopher  had  as  much  nerve  as  the  next  man  — 
when  the  sun  was  shining  and  he  could  see  what 
danger  he  was  facing.  But  there  was  something 
sinister  and  nerve-racking  here.  He  wanted  to 

248 


The  Yukon  Trail 

throw  open  the  door  and  shout  the  news  to  those 
outside. 

By  the  light  of  another  match  the  mine-owner 
crossed  the  room  into  the  sitting-room  of  the 
cashier.  Presently  he  returned  with  a  lamp  and 
let  its  light  fall  upon  the  figure  lying  slumped 
against  the  wall.  A  revolver  lay  close  to  the  inert 
fingers.  The  head  hung  forward  grotesquely  upon 
the  breast. 

The  dead  man  was  Milton.  His  employer 
saw  nothing  ridiculous  in  the  twisted  neck  and 
sprawling  limbs.  The  cashier  had  died  to  save 
the  money  entrusted  to  his  care. 

Macdonald  handed  the  lamp  to  the  marshal 
and  picked  up  the  revolver.  Every  chamber  was 
loaded. 

"They  beat  him  to  it.  They  were  probably 
here  when  he  reached  home.  My  guess  is  he 
heard  them  right  away,  got  his  gun,  and  came  in. 
He's  still  wearing  his  dress  suit.  That  gives  us 
the  time,  for  he  left  the  club  about  midnight. 
Soon  as  they  saw  him  they  dropped  him.  Likely 
they  heard  him  and  were  ready.  I  wouldn't 
have  had  this  happen  for  all  the  money  in  the 
safe." 

"How  much  was  there  in  it?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  The  books  will  show. 
I'll  send  Wally  down  to  look  them  over." 

"Shot  right  spang  through  the  heart,  looks 
249 


The  Yukon  Trail 

like,"  commented  Jones,  following  with  his  eye 
the  course  of  the  wound. 

"  Wish  I  'd  been  here  instead  of  him,"  Macdon- 
ald  said  grimly.  His  eyes  softened  as  he  contin 
ued  to  look  down  at  the  employee  who  had  paid 
with  his  life  for  his  faithfulness.  "It  was  n't  an 
even  break.  Poor  old  fellow !  You  were  n't  built 
for  a  job  like  this,  Robert  Milton,  but  you  played 
your  hand  out  to  a  finish.  That's  all  any  man 
can  do." 

He  turned  abruptly  away  and  began  examin 
ing  the  safe.  The  silver  still  stood  sacked  in  one 
large  compartment.  The  bank-notes  had  escaped 
the  hurried  search  of  the  robbers,  but  the  gold 
was  practically  all  gone.  One  sack  had  been  torn 
by  the  explosion  and  single  pieces  of  gold  could 
be  found  all  over  the  safe. 

Macdonald  glanced  over  the  papers  rapidly. 
The  officer  picked  up  one  of  dozens  scattered 
over  the  floor.  It  was  a  mortgage  note  made  out 
to  the  bank  by  a  miner.  He  collected  the  others. 
Evidently  the  bandits  had  torn  off  the  rubber, 
glanced  over  one  or  two  to  see  if  they  had  any 
cash  value,  and  tossed  the  package  into  the  air 
as  a  disgusted  gambler  does  a  pack  of  cards. 

The  bank  president  stepped  to  the  door  and 
threw  it  open.  He  explained  the  situation  in 
three  sentences. 

"I  can't  let  you  in  now,  boys,  until  the  coroner 
250 


The  Yukon  Trail 

has  been  here,"  he  went  on  to  tell  the  crowd. 
"But  there  is  one  way  you  can  all  help.  Keep 
your  eyes  open.  If  you  have  seen  any  suspicious 
characters  around,  let  me  know.  Or  if  any  one 
has  left  town  in  a  hurry  —  or  been  seen  doing 
anything  during  the  night  that  you  did  not 
understand  at  the  time.  Men  can't  do  a  thing 
like  this  without  leaving  some  clue  behind  them 
even  though  the  snow  has  wiped  away  their 
trail." 

A  man  named  Fred  Tague  pushed  to  the  front. 
He  kept  a  feed  corral  near  the  edge  of  town.  "I 
can  tell  you  one  man  who  mushed  out  before  five 
o'clock  this  morning  —  and  that's  Gid  Holt." 

The  eyes  of  Macdonald,  cold  and  hard  as  jade, 
fastened  to  the  man.  "How  do  you  know?" 

"That  dog  team  he  bought  from  Tim  Ryan  — 
Well,  he 's  been  keeping  it  in  my  corral.  When  I 
got  there  this  morning  it  was  gone.  The  snow 
had  n't  wiped  out  the  tracks  of  the  runners  yet, 
so  he  could  n't  have  left  more  than  fifteen  min 
utes  before." 

"What  time  was  it  when  you  reached  the 
corral?" 

"Might  have  been  six  —  maybe  a  little  later." 

"You  don't  know  that  Holt  took  the  team 
himself?" 

"Come  to  that,  I  don't.  But  he  had  a  key  to 
the  barn  where  the  sled  was.  Holt  has  been  put- 

251 


The  Yukon  Trail 

ting  up  at  the  hotel.  I  reckon  it  is  easy  to  find 
out  if  he's  still  there." 

Macdonald's  keen  brain  followed  the  facts  as 
the  nose  of  a  bloodhound  does  a  trail.  Holt,  an 
open  enemy  of  his,  had  reached  town  only  two 
days  before.  He  had  bought  one  of  the  best  and 
swiftest  dog  teams  in  the  North  and  had  let  slip 
before  witnesses  the  remark  that  Macdonald 
would  soon  find  out  what  he  wanted  with  the 
outfit.  The  bank  had  been  robbed  after  midnight. 
To  file  open  the  grill  and  to  blow  up  the  safe 
must  have  taken  several  hours.  Before  morning 
the  dogs  of  Holt  had  taken  the  trail.  If  their 
owner  were  with  them,  it  was  a  safe  bet  that  the 
sled  carried  forty  thousand  dollars  in  Alaska 
gold  dust. 

So  far  the  mind  of  the  Scotchman  followed  the 
probabilities  logically,  but  at  this  point  it  made 
a  jump.  There  were  at  least  two  robbers.  He 
was  morally  sure  of  that,  for  this  was  not  a  one- 
man  job.  Now,  if  Holt  had  with  him  a  compan 
ion,  who  of  all  those  in  Kusiak  was  the  most 
likely  man?  He  was  a  friendless,  crabbed  old  fel 
low.  Since  coming  to  Kusiak  old  Gideon  had 
been  seen  constantly  with  one  man.  Together 
they  had  driven  out  the  day  before  and  tried  his 
new  team.  They  had  been  with  each  other  at 
dinner  and  had  later  left  the  hotel  together.  The 
name  of  the  man  who  had  been  so  friendly  with 


The  Yukon  Trail 

old  Holt  was  Gordon  Elliot  —  and  Elliot  not 
only  was  another  enemy  of  Macdonald,  but  had 
very  good  reasons  for  getting  out  of  the  country 
just  now. 

The  strong  jaw  of  the  mine-owner  stood  out 
saliently  as  he  gave  short,  sharp  orders  to  men  in 
the  crowd.  One  was  to  get  the  coroner,  a  second 
Wally  Selfridge,  another  the  United  States  Dis 
trict  Attorney.  He  divided  the  rest  into  squads 
to  guard  the  roads  leading  out  of  town  and  to 
see  that  nobody  passed  for  the  present. 

As  soon  as  the  men  he  had  sent  for  arrived, 
Macdonald  went  over  the  scene  of  the  crime  with 
them.  It  was  plain  that  the  dynamiting  had  been 
done  by  an  old-time  miner  who  knew  his  busi 
ness,  but  there  had  been  brains  in  the  planning 
of  the  robbery. 

"There  is  no  ivory  above  the  ears  of  the  man 
who  bossed  this  job,"  Macdonald  told  the  others. 
"He  picks  a  night  when  we're  all  at  the  club, 
more  than  half  a  mile  from  here,  a  stormy  night 
when  folks  are  not  wandering  the  streets.  He 
knows  that  the  wind  will  deaden  the  sound  of  the 
dynamite  and  that  the  snow  will  wipe  out  any 
tracks  that  might  help  to  identify  him  and  his 
pal  or  show  which  way  they  have  gone." 

The  coroner  took  charge  of  the  body  and  Wally 
of  the  bank.  The  mine-owner  and  the  district 
attorney  walked  up  to  the  hotel  together,  As 

253 


The  Yukon  Trail 

soon  as  they  had  explained  what  they  wanted, 
the  landlord  got  a  passkey  and  took  them  to  the 
room  Holt  had  used. 

Apparently  the  bed  had  been  slept  in.  In  the 
waste-paper  basket  the  district  attorney  found 
something  which  he  held  up  in  a  significant 
silence.  Macdonald  stepped  forward  and  took 
from  him  a  small  cloth  sack. 

"One  of  those  we  keep  our  gold  in  at  the  bank," 
said  the  Scotchman  after  a  close  examination. 
"This  definitely  ties  up  Holt  with  the  robbery. 
Now  for  Elliot." 

"He  left  the  hotel  with  Holt  about  five  this 
morning  the  porter  says."  This  was  the  contri 
bution  of  the  landlord. 

The  room  of  Gordon  Elliot  was  in  great  dis 
order.  Garments  had  been  tossed  on  the  bed  and 
on  every  chair  and  had  been  left  to  lie  wherever 
they  had  chanced  to  fall.  Plainly  their  owner 
had  been  in  great  haste. 

Macdonald  looked  through  the  closet  where 
clothes  hung.  "His  new  fur  coat  is  not  here  — 
nor  his  trail  boots.  Looks  to  me  as  though  Mr. 
Gordon  had  hit  the  trail  with  his  friend  Holt." 

This  opinion  was  strengthened  when  it  was 
learned  from  a  store-owner  in  town  that  Holt 
and  Elliot,had  routed  him  out  of  bed  in  the  early 
morning  to  sell  them  two  weeks'  supplies.  These 
they  had  packed  upon  the  sled  outside  the  store. 

254 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"It's  a  cinch  bet  that  Elliot  took  the  trail  with 
him,"  the  lawyer  conceded. 

All  doubt  of  this  was  removed  when  a  pros 
pector  reached  town  with  the  news  that  he  had 
met  Holt  and  Elliot  traveling  toward  the  divide 
as  fast  as  they  could  drive  the  dogs. 

The  big  Scotchman  ordered  his  team  of  Sibe 
rian  wolf-hounds  made  ready  for  the  trail.  As  he 
donned  his  heavy  furs,  Colby  Macdonald  smiled 
with  deep  satisfaction.  He  had  Elliot  on  the  run 
at  last. 

Just  as  he  closed  the  door  of  his  room,  Macdon 
ald  heard  the  telephone  bell  ring.  He  hesitated, 
then  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  strode  out  into 
the  storm.  If  he  had  answered  the  call  he  would 
have  learned  from  Diane,  who  was  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line,  that  the  stage  upon  which  Sheba 
had  started  for  Katma  had  not  reached  the  road- 
house  at  Smith's  Crossing. 

Five  minutes  later  the  winners  of  the  great 
Alaska  Sweepstakes  were  flying  down  the  street 
in  the  teeth  of  the  storm.  Armed  with  a  rifle  and 
a  revolver,  their  owner  was  mushing  into  the 
hills  to  bring  back  the  men  who  had  robbed  his 
bank  and  killed  the  cashier.  He  traveled  alone 
because  he  could  go  faster  without  a  companion. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  not  a  match 
for  any  two  men  he  might  face. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN    THE   BLIZZARD 

"SWIFTWATER"  PETE,  the  driver  of  the  stage 
between  Kusiak  and  Katma,  did  not  like  the 
look  of  the  sky  as  his  ponies  breasted  the  long 
uphill  climb  that  ended  at  the  pass.  It  was  his 
habit  to  grumble.  He  had  been  complaining  ever 
since  they  had  started.  But  as  he  studied  the 
heavy  billows  of  cloud  banked  above  the  peaks 
and  in  the  saddle  between,  there  was  real  anxiety 
in  his  red,  apoplectic  face. 

"Gittin'  her  back  up  for  a  blizzard,  looks  like. 
Doggone  it,  if  that  would  n't  jest  be  my  luck," 
he  murmured  fretfully. 

Sheba  hoped  there  would  be  one,  not,  of  course, 
a  really,  truly  blizzard  such  as  Macdonald  had 
told  her  about,  but  the  tail  of  a  make-believe 
one,  enough  to  send  her  glowing  with  exhilara 
tion  into  the  roadhouse  with  the  happy  sense  of 
an  adventure  achieved.  The  girl  had  got  out  to 
relieve  the  horses,  and  as  her  young,  lissom  body 
took  the  hill  scattering  flakes  of  snow  were  al 
ready  flying. 

To-day  she  was  buoyed  up  by  a  sense  of  free 
dom.  For  a  time,  at  least,  she  was  escaping 
Macdonald's  driving  energy,  the  appeal  of  Gor- 

256 


The  Yukon  Trail 

don  Elliot's  warm  friendliness,  and  the  unvoiced 
urging  of  Diane.  Good  old  Peter  and  the  kiddies 
were  the  only  ones  that  let  her  alone. 

She  looked  back  at  the  horses  laboring  up  the 
hill.  Swiftwater  had  got  down  and  was  urging 
them  forward,  his  long  whip  crackling  about  the 
ears  of  the  leaders.  He  waddled  as  he  walked. 
His  fat  legs  were  too  short  for  the  round  barrel 
body.  A  big  roll  of  fat  bulged  out  over  the  collar 
of  his  shirt.  Whenever  he  was  excited  —  and  he 
always  was  on  the  least  excuse  —  he  puffed  and 
snorted  and  grew  alarmingly  purple. 

"Fat  chance,"  he  exploded  as  soon  as  he  got 
within  hearing.  "Snow  in  those  clouds  —  tons 
of  it.  H'm!  And  wind.  Wow!  We 're  in  for  an 
honest-to-God  blizzard,  sure  as  you're  a  foot 
high." 

Swiftwater  was  worried.  He  would  have  liked 
to  turn  and  run  for  it.  But  the  last  roadhouse 
was  twenty-seven  miles  back.  If  the  blizzard 
came  howling  down  the  slope  they  would  have  a 
sweet  time  of  it  reaching  safety.  Smith's  Cross 
ing  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  divide,  only  nine  • 
miles  away.  They  would  have  to  worry  through 
somehow.  Probably  those  angry  clouds  were 
half  a  bluff. 

The  temperature  was  dropping  rapidly.  Al 
ready  snow  fell  fast  in  big  thick  flakes.  To  make 
it  worse,  the  wind  was  beginning  to  rise.  It 

257 


The  Yukon  Trail 

came  in  shrill  gusts  momentarily  increasing  in 
force. 

The  stage-driver  knew  the  signs  of  old  and 
cursed  the  luck  that  had  led  him  to  bring  the 
stage.  It  was  to  have  been  the  last  trip  with 
horses  until  spring.  His  dogs  were  waiting  for 
him  at  Katma  for  the  return  journey.  He  did  not 
blame  himself,  for  there  was  no  reason  to  expect 
such  a  storm  so  early  in  the  season.  None  the 
less,  it  was  too  bad  that  his  lead  dog  had  been 
ailing  when  he  left  the  gold  camp  eight  days 
before. 

Miss  O'Neill  knew  that  Swiftwater  Pete  was 
anxious,  and  though  she  was  not  yet  afraid,  the 
girl  understood  the  reason  for  it.  The  road  ran 
through  the  heart  of  a  vast  snow-field,  the  sur 
face  of  which  was  being  swept  by  a  screaming 
wind.  The  air  was  full  of  sifted  white  dust,  and 
the  road  furrow  was  rapidly  filling.  Soon  it  would 
be  obliterated.  Already  the  horses  were  panting 
and  struggling  as  they  ploughed  forward.  Sheba 
tramped  behind  the  stage-driver  and  in  her 
tracks  walked  Mrs.  Olson,  the  other  passenger. 

Through  the  muffled  scream  of  the  storm 
Swiftwater  shouted  back  to  Sheba.  "You  wanta 
keep  close  to  me." 

She  nodded  her  head.  His  order  needed  no 
explanation.  The  world  was  narrowing  to  a  lane 
whose  walls  she  could  almost  touch  with  her 

258 


The  Yukon  Trail 

fingers.  A  pall  of  white  wrapped  them.  Upon 
them  beat  a  wind  of  stinging  sleet.  Nothing 
could  be  seen  but  the  blurred  outlines  of  the 
stage  and  the  driver's  figure. 

The  bitter  cold  searched  through  Sheba's  furs 
to  her  soft  flesh  and  the  blast  of  powdered  ice 
beat  upon  her  face.  The  snow  was  getting  deeper 
as  the  road  filled.  Once  or  twice  she  stumbled 
and  fell.  Her  strength  ebbed,  and  the  hinges  of 
her  knees  gave  unexpectedly  beneath  her.  How 
long  was  it,  she  asked  herself,  that  Macdonald 
had  said  men  could  live  in  a  blizzard? 

Staggering  blindly  forward,  Sheba  bumped 
into  the  driver.  He  had  drawn  up  to  give  the 
horses  a  moment's  rest  before  sending  them 
plunging  at  the  snow  again. 

"No  chance,"  he  called  into  the  young  wo 
man's  ear.  "Never  make  Smith's  in  the  world. 
Goin'  try  for  miner's  cabin  up  gulch  little 
way." 

The  team  stuck  in  the  drifts,  fought  through, 
and  was  blocked  again  ten  yards  beyond.  A 
dozen  times  the  horses  gave  up,  answered  the 
sting  of  the  whip  by  diving  head  first  at  the  white 
banks,  and  were  stopped  by  fresh  snow-combs. 

Pete  gave  up  the  fight.  He  began  unhitching 
the  horses,  while  Sheba  and  Mrs.  Olson,  clinging 
to  each  other's  hands,  stumbled  forward  to  join 
him.  The  words  he  shouted  across  the  back  of  a 

259 


The  Yukon  Trail 

horse  were  almost  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  shrieking 
wind. 

"...  heluvatime  .  .  .  ride  .  .  .  gulch,"  Sheba 
made  out. 

He  flung  Mrs.  Olson  astride  one  of  the  wheelers 
and  helped  Sheba  to  the  back  of  the  right  leader. 
Swiftwater  clambered  upon  its  mate  himself. 

The  girl  paid  no  attention  to  where  they  were 
going.  The  urge  of  life  was  so  faint  within  her 
that  she  did  not  greatly  care  whether  she  lived 
or  died.  Her  face  was  blue  from  the  cold;  her 
vitality  was  sapped.  She  seemed  to  herself  to 
have  turned  to  ice  below  the  hips.  Outside  the 
misery  of  the  moment  her  whole  attention  was 
concentrated  on  sticking  to  the  back  of  the  horse. 
Numb  though  her  fingers  were,  she  must  keep 
them  fastened  tightly  in  the  frozen  mane  of  the 
animal.  She  recited  her  lesson  to  herself  like  a 
child.  She  must  stick  on  —  she  must  —  she  must. 

Whether  she  lost  consciousness  or  not  Sheba 
never  knew.  The  next  she  realized  was  that 
Swiftwater  Pete  was  pulling  her  from  the  horse. 
He  dragged  her  into  a  cabin  where  Mrs.  Olson 
lay  crouched  on  the  floor. 

"  Got  to  stable  the  horses,"  he  explained,  and 
left  them. 

After  a  time  he  came  back  and  lit  a  fire  in  the 
sheet-iron  stove.  As  the  circulation  that  meant 
life  flooded  back  into  her  chilled  veins  Sheba 

2  (JO 


The  Yukon  Trail 

endured  a  half-hour  of  excruciating  pain.  She 
had  to  clench  her  teeth  to  keep  back  the  groans 
that  came  from  her  throat,  to  walk  the  floor  and 
nurse  her  tortured  hands  with  fingers  in  like 
plight. 

The  cabin  was  empty  of  furniture  except  for  a 
home-made  table,  rough  stools,  and  the  frame  of 
a  bed.  The  last  occupant  had  left  a  little  firewood 
beside  the  stove,  enough  to  last  perhaps  for 
twenty-four  hours.  Sheba  did  not  need  to  be 
told  that  if  the  blizzard  lasted  long  enough,  they 
would  starve  to  death.  In  the  handbag  left  in 
the  stage  were  a  box  of  candy  and  an  Irish  plum 
pudding.  She  had  brought  the  latter  from  the  old 
country  with  her  and  was  taking  it  and  the  choc 
olates  to  the  Husted  children.  But  just  now  the 
stage  was  as  far  from  them  as  Drogheda. 

Like  many  rough  frontiersmen,  Swiftwater 
Pete  was  a  diamond  in  the  raw.  He  had  the 
kindly,  gentle  instincts  that  go  to  the  making 
of  a  good  man.  So  far  as  could  be  he  made  a 
hopeless  and  impossible  situation  comfortable. 
His  judgment  told  him  that  they  were  caught  in 
a  trap  from  which  there  was  no  escape,  but  for 
the  sake  of  the  women  he  put  a  cheerful  face 
on  things. 

"Lucky  we  found  this  cabin,"  he  growled 
amiably.  "By  this  time  we'd  'a5  been  up  Salt 
Creek  if  we  had  n't.  Seeing  as  our  luck  has  stood 

261 


The  Yukon  Trail 

up  so  far,  I  reckon  we'll  be  all  right.  Mighty 
kind  of  Mr.  Last  Tenant  to  leave  us  this  firewood. 
Comes  to  a  showdown  we've  got  one  table,  four 
stools,  and  a  bed  that  will  make  first-class  fuel. 
We  ain't  so  worse  off." 

"If  we  only  had  some  food,"  Mrs.  Olson  sug 
gested. 

"Food!"  Pete  looked  at  her  in  assumed  sur 
prise.  "Huh!  What  about  all  that  live  stock  I 
got  in  the  stable?  I've  heard  tell,  ma'am,  that 
broncho  tenderloin  is  a  favorite  dish  with  them 
there  French  chiefs  that  do  the  cooking.  They 
kinder  trim  it  up  so 's  it 's  'most  as  good  as 
frawgs'  legs." 

Sheba  had  never  before  slept  on  bare  boards 
with  a  sealskin  coat  for  a  sleeping-bag.  But  she 
was  very  tired  and  dropped  off  almost  instantly. 
Twice  she  woke  during  the  night,  disturbed  by 
the  stiffness  and  the  pain  of  her  body.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  hard,  whipsawed  planks  were 
pushing  through  the  soft  flesh  to  the  bones.  She 
was  cold,  too,  and  crept  closer  to  the  stout 
Swedish  woman  lying  beside  her.  Presently  she 
fell  asleep  again  to  the  sound  of  the  blizzard 
howling  outside.  When  she  wakened  for  the 
third  time  it  was  morning. 

In  the  afternoon  the  blizzard  died  away.  As 
far  as  she  could  see,  Sheba  looked  out  upon  a 
waste  of  snow.  Her  eyes  turned  from  the  desola- 

262 


The  Yukon  Trail 

tion  without  to  the  bare  and  cheerless  room  in 
which  they  had  found  shelter.  In  spite  of  herself 
a  little  shiver  ran  down  the  spine  of  the  girl. 
Had  she  come  into  this  Arctic  solitude  to  find 
her  tomb? 

Resolutely  she  brushed  the  gloomy  thought 
from  her  mind  and  began  to  chat  with  Mrs. 
Olson.  In  a  corner  of  the  cabin  Sheba  had  found 
a  torn  and  disreputable  copy  of  "Vanity  Fair." 
The  covers  and  the  first  forty  pages  were  gone. 
A  splash  of  what  appeared  to  be  tobacco  juice 
defiled  the  last  sheet.  But  the  fortunes  of  Becky 
and  Amelia  had  served  to  make  her  forget  during 
the  morning  that  she  was  hungry  and  likely  to 
be  much  hungrier  before  another  day  had  passed. 

As  soon  as  the  storm  had  moderated  enough  to 
let  him  go  out  with  safety,  Swiftwater  Pete  had 
taken  one  of  the  horses  for  an  attempt  at  trail- 
breaking. 

"Me,  I'm  after  that  plum  pudding.  I  gotta 
get  a  feed  of  oats  from  the  stage  for  my  bronchs 
too.  The  scenery  here  is  sure  fine,  but  it  ain't 
what  you  would  call  nourishing.  Huh!  Watch 
our  smoke  when  me  and  old  Baldface  git  to 
bucking  them  drifts." 

He  had  been  gone  two  hours  and  the  early 
dusk  was  already  descending  over  the  white 
waste  when  Sheba  ventured  out  to  see  what  had 
become  of  the  stage-driver.  But  the  cold  was  so 


The  Yukon  Trail 

bitter  that  she  soon  gave  up  the  attempt  to  fight 
her  way  through  the  drifts  and  turned  back  to 
the  cabin. 

Sometime  later  Swiftwater  Pete  came  stum 
bling  into  their  temporary  home.  He  was  fagged 
to  exhaustion  but  triumphant.  Upon  the  table 
he  dropped  from  the  crook  of  his  numbed  arm 
two  packages. 

"The  makings  for  a  Christmas  dinner,"  he 
said  with  a  grin. 

After  he  had  taken  off  his  mukluks  and  his 
frozen  socks  they  wrapped  him  in  their  furs  while 
he  toasted  before  the  stove.  Mrs.  Olson  thawed 
out  the  pudding  and  the  chocolates  in  the  oven 
and  made  a  kind  of  mush  out  of  some  oats  Pete 
had  saved  from  the  horse  feed.  They  ate  their 
one-sided  meal  in  high  spirits.  The  freeze  had 
saved  their  lives.  If  it  held  clear  till  to-morrow 
they  could  reach  Smith's  Crossing  on  the  crust 
of  the  snow. 

Swiftwater  broke  up  the  chairs  for  fuel  and 
demolished  the  legs  of  the  table,  after  which  he 
lay  down  before  the  stove  and  fell  at  once  into  a 
sodden  sleep. 

Presently  Mrs.  Olson  lay  down  on  the  bed  and 
began  to  snore  regularly.  Sheba  could  not  sleep. 
The  boards  tired  her  bones  and  she  was  cold. 
Sometimes  she  slipped  into  cat  naps  that  were 
full  of  bad  dreams.  She  thought  she  was  walking 

264 


The  Yukon  Trail 

on  the  snow-comb  of  a  precipice  and  that  Colby 
Macdonald  pushed  her  from  her  precarious  foot 
ing  and  laughed  at  her  as  she  slid  swiftly  toward 
the  gulf  below.  When  she  wakened  with  a  start 
it  was  to  find  that  the  fire  had  died  down.  She 
was  shivering  from  lack  of  cover.  Quietly  the 
girl  replenished  the  fire  and  lay  down  again. 

When  she  wakened  with  a  start  it  was  morning. 
A  faint  light  sifted  through  the  single  window  of 
the  shack.  Sheba  whispered  to  the  older  woman 
that  she  was  going  out  for  a  little  walk. 

"Be  careful,  dearie,"  advised  Mrs.  Olson.  "I 
would  n't  try  to  go  too  far." 

Sheba  smiled  to  herself  at  the  warning.  It  was 
not  likely  that  she  would  go  far  enough  to  get 
lost  with  all  these  millions  of  tons  of  snow  piled 
up  around  her  in  every  direction. 

She  had  come  out  because  she  was  restless  and 
was  tired  of  the  dingy  and  uncomfortable  room. 
Without  any  definite  intentions,  she  naturally 
followed  the  trail  that  Swif twater  had  broken  the 
day  before.  No  wind  stirred  and  the  sky  was 
clear.  But  it  was  very  cold.  The  sun  would  not 
be  up  for  half  an  hour. 

As  she  worked  her  way  down  the  gulch  Sheba 
wondered  whether  the  news  of  their  loss  had 
reached  Kusiak.  Were  search  parties  out  already 
to  rescue  them?  Colby  Macdonald  had  gone  out 
into  the  blizzard  years  ago  to  save  her  father, 

265 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Perhaps  he  might  have  been  out  all  night  trying 
to  save  her  father's  daughter.  Peter  would  go, 
of  course,  —  and  Gordon  Elliot.  The  work  in  the 
mines  would  stop  and  men  would  volunteer  by 
scores.  That  was  one  fine  thing  about  the  North. 
It  responded  to  the  unwritten  law  that  a  man 
must  risk  his  own  life  to  save  others. 

But  if  the  wires  had  come  down  in  the  storm 
Kusiak  would  not  know  they  had  not  got  through 
to  Smith's  Crossing.  Swiftwater  Pete  spoke  cheer 
fully  about  mushing  to  the  roadhouse.  But  Sheba 
knew  the  snow  would  not  bear  the  horses.  They 
would  have  to  walk,  and  it  was  not  at  all  cer 
tain  that  Mrs.  Olson  could  do  so  long  a  walk  with 
the  thermometer  at  forty  or  fifty  below  zero. 

From  a  little  knoll  Sheba  looked  down  upon 
the  top  of  the  stage  three  hundred  yards  below 
her,  and  while  she  stood  there  the  promise  of  the 
new  day  was  blazoned  on  the  sky.  It  came  with 
amazing  beauty  of  green  and  primrose  and 
amethyst,  while  the  stars  flickered  out  and  the 
heavens  took  on  the  blue  of  sunrise.  In  a  crotch 
between  two  peaks  a  faint  golden  glow  heralded 
the  sun.  A  circle  of  lovely  rose-pink  flushed  the 
horizon. 

Sheba  had  this  much  of  the  poet  in  her,  that 
every  sunrise  was  still  a  miracle.  She  drew  a  deep, 
slow  breath  of  adoration  and  turned  away.  As 
she  did  so  her  eyes  dilated  and  her  body  grew  rigid. 

266 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Across  the  snow  waste  a  man  was  coming.  He 
was  moving  toward  the  cabin  and  must  cross  the 
trench  close  to  her.  The  heart  of  the  girl  stopped, 
then  beat  wildly  to  make  up  the  lost  stroke.  He 
had  come  through  the  blizzard  to  save  her. 

At  that  very  instant,  as  if  the  stage  had  been 
set  for  it,  the  wonderful  Alaska  sun  pushed  up 
into  the  crotch  of  the  peaks  and  poured  its  radi 
ance  over  the  Arctic  waste.  The  pink  glow 
swept  in  a  tide  of  delicate  color  over  the  snow 
and  transmuted  it  to  millions  of  sparkling  dia 
monds.  The  Great  Magician's  wand  had  re 
created  the  world  instantaneously. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HARD   MUSHING 

ELLIOT  and  Holt  left  Kusiak  in  a  spume  of 
whirling,  blinding  snow.  They  traveled  light, 
not  more  than  forty  pounds  to  the  dog,  for  they 
wanted  to  make  speed.  It  was  not  cold  for 
Alaska.  They  packed  their  fur  coats  on  the  sled 
and  wore  waterproof  parkas.  On  their  hands 
were  mittens  of  moosehide  with  duffel  lining,  on 
their  feet  mukluks  above  " German"  socks.  Holt 
had  been  a  sour-dough  miner  too  long  to  let  his 
partner  perspire  from  overmuch  clothing.  He 
knew  the  danger  of  pneumonia  from  a  sudden 
cooling  of  the  heat  of  the  body. 

Old  Gideon  took  seven  of  his  dogs,  driving 
them  two  abreast.  Six  were  huskies,  rangy,  mus 
cular  animals  with  thick,  dense  coats.  They  were 
in  the  best  of  spirits  and  carried  their  tails  erect 
like  their  Malemute  leader.  Butch,  though  a 
Malemute,  had  a  strong  strain  of  collie  in  him. 
It  gave  him  a  sense  of  responsibility.  His  busi 
ness  was  to  see  that  the  team  kept  strung  out  on 
the  trail,  and  Butch  was  a  past-master  in  the 
matter  of  discipline.  His  weight  was  ninety- 
three  fighting  pounds,  and  he  could  thrash  in 
short  order  any  dog  in  the  team. 

268 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  snow  was  wet  and  soft.  It  clung  to  every 
thing  it  touched.  The  dogs  carried  pounds  of  it 
in  the  tufts  of  hair  that  rose  from  their  backs. 
An  icy  pyramid  had  to  be  knocked  from  the  sled 
every  half-hour.  The  snowshoes  were  heavy 
with  white  slush.  Densely  laden  spruce  boughs 
brushed  the  faces  of  the  men  and  showered  them 
with  unexpected  little  avalanches. 

They  took  turns  in  going  ahead  of  the  team  and 
breaking  trail.  It  was  heavy,  muscle-grinding 
work.  Before  noon  they  were  both  utterly 
fatigued.  They  dragged  forward  through  the 
slush,  lifting  their  laden  feet  sluggishly.  They 
must  keep  going,  and  they  did,  but  it  seemed  to 
them  that  every  step  must  be  the  last. 

Shortly  after  noon  the  storm  wore  itself  out. 
The  temperature  had  been  steadily  falling  and 
now  it  took  a  rapid  drop.  They  were  passing 
through  timber,  and  on  a  little  slope  they  built 
with  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  a  fire.  By  careful 
nursing  they  soon  had  a  great  bonfire  going,  in 
front  of  which  they  put  their  wet  socks,  mukluks, 
scarfs,  and  parkas  to  dry.  The  toes  of  the  dogs 
had  become  packed  with  little  ice  balls.  Gordon 
and  Holt  had  to  go  carefully  over  the  feet  of  each 
animal  to  dig  these  out. 

The  old-timer  thawed  out  a  slab  of  dried  sal 
mon  till  the  fat  began  to  frizzle  and  fed  each 
husky  a  pound  of  the  fish  and  a  lump  of  tallow. 

269 


The  Yukon  Trail 

He  and  Gordon  made  a  pot  of  tea  and  ate  some 
meat  sandwiches  they  had  brought  with  them  to 
save  cooking  until  night. 

When  they  took  the  trail  again  it  was  in  moc 
casins  instead  of  mukluks.  The  weather  was 
growing  steadily  colder  and  with  each  degree  of 
fall  in  the  thermometer  the  trail  became  easier. 

"Mushing  at  fifty  below  zero  is  all  right  when 
it  is  all  right,"  explained  Holt  in  the  words  of  the 
old  prospector.  "But  when  it  isn't  right  it's 
hell." 

"It  is  not  fifty  below  yet,  is  it?" 

"Nope.  But  she's  on  the  way.  When  your 
breath  makes  a  kinder  crackling  noise  she's 
fifty." 

Travel  was  much  easier  now.  There  was  a 
crust  on  the  snow  that  held  up  the  dogs  and  the 
sled  so  that  trail-breaking  was  not  necessary. 
The  little  party  pounded  steadily  over  the  barren 
hills.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  except  what  they 
brought  with  them  out  of  the  Arctic  silence  and 
carried  with  them  into  the  greater  silence  be 
yond.  A  little  cloud  of  steam  enveloped  them  as 
they  moved,  the  moisture  from  the  breath  of 
nine  moving  creatures  in  a  waste  of  emptiness. 

Each  of  the  men  wrapped  a  long  scarf  around 
his  mouth  and  nose  for  protection,  and  as  the 
part  in  front  of  his  face  became  a  sheet  of  ice 
shifted  the  muffler  to  another  place. 

270 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Night  fell  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  but 
they  kept  traveling.  Not  till  they  were  well  up 
toward  the  summit  of  the  divide  did  they  decide 
to  camp.  They  drove  into  a  little  draw  and  un 
harnessed  the  weary  dogs.  It  was  bitterly  cold, 
but  they  were  forced  to  set  up  the  tent  and  stove 
to  keep  from  freezing.  Their  numbed  fingers 
made  a  slow  job  of  the  camp  preparations.  At 
last  the  stove  was  going,  the  dogs  fed,  and  they 
themselves  thawed  out.  They  fell  asleep  shortly 
to  the  sound  of  the  mournful  howling  of  the  dogs 
outside. 

Long  before  daybreak  they  were  afoot  again. 
Holt  went  out  to  chop  some  wood  for  the  stove 
while  Gordon  made  breakfast  preparations.  The 
little  miner  brought  in  an  armful  of  wood  and 
went  out  to  get  a  second  supply.  A  few  moments 
later  Elliot  heard  a  cry. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  tent  and  ran  to  the  spot 
where  Holt  was  lying  under  a  mass  of  ice  and 
snow.  The  young  man  threw  aside  the  broken 
blocks  that  had  plunged  down  from  a  ledge 
above. 

"Badly  hurt,  Gid?"  he  asked. 

"I  done  bust  my  laig,  son,"  the  old  man  an 
swered  with  a  twisted  grin. 

"  You  mean  that  it  is  broken?" 

"Tell  you  that  in  a  minute." 

He  felt  his  leg  carefully  and  with  Elliot's  help 
271 


The  Yukon  Trail 

tried  to  get  up.    Groaning,  he  slid  back  to  the 
snow. 

"Yep.   She's  busted,"  he  announced. 

Gordon  carried  him  to  the  tent  and  laid  him 
down  carefully.  The  old  miner  swore  softly. 

"Ain't  this  a  hell  of  a  note,  boy?  You'll  have 
to  get  me  to  Smith's  Crossing  and  leave  me  there." 

It  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done.  Elliot  broke 
camp  and  packed  the  sled.  Upon  the  load  he  put 
his  companion,  well  wrapped  up  in  furs.  He  har 
nessed  the  dogs  and  drove  back  to  the  road. 

Two  miles  farther  up  the  road  Gordon  stopped 
his  team  sharply.  He  had  turned  a  bend  in  the 
trail  and  had  come  upon  an  empty  stage  buried 
in  the  snow. 

The  fear  that  had  been  uppermost  in  Elliot's 
mind  for  twenty-four  hours  clutched  at  his 
throat.  Was  it  tragedy  upon  which  he  had  come 
after  his  long  journey? 

Holt  guessed  the  truth.  "They  got  stalled  and 
cut  loose  the  horses.  Must  have  tried  to  ride  the 
cayuses  to  shelter." 

"To  Smith's  Crossing?"  asked  Gordon. 

"Expect  so."  Then,  with  a  whoop,  the  man 
on  the  sled  contradicted  himself.  "No,  by 
Moses,  to  Dick  Fiddler's  old  cabin  up  the  draw. 
That's  where  Swiftwater  would  aim  for  till  the 
blizzard  was  over." 

"Where  is  it?"  demanded  his  friend. 
272 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"Swing  over  to  the  right  and  follow  the  little 
gulch.  I'll  wait  till  you  come  back." 

Gordon  dropped  the  gee-pole  and  started  on 
the  instant.  Eagerness,  anxiety,  dread  fought  in 
his  heart.  He  knew  that  any  moment  now  he 
might  stumble  upon  the  evidence  of  the  sad 
story  which  is  repeated  in  Alaska  many  times 
every  winter.  It  rang  in  him  like  a  bell  that 
where  tough,  hardy  miners  succumbed  a  frail 
girl  would  have  small  chance. 

He  cut  across  over  the  hill  toward  the  draw, 
and  at  what  he  saw  his  pulse  quickened.  Smoke 
was  pouring  out  of  the  chimney  of  a  cabin  and 
falling  groundward,  as  it  does  in  the  Arctic  dur 
ing  very  cold  weather.  Had  Sheba  found  safety 
there?  Or  was  it  the  winter  home  of  a  prospector? 

As  he  pushed  forward  the  rising  sun  flooded 
the  earth  with  pink  and  struck  a  million  sparkles 
of  color  from  the  snow.  The  wonder  of  it  drew 
the  eyes  of  the  young  man  for  a  moment  toward 
the  hills. 

A  tumult  of  joy  flooded  his  veins.  The  girl 
who  held  in  her  soft  hands  the  happiness  of  his 
life  stood  looking  at  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
she  was  the  core  of  all  that  lovely  tide  of  radi 
ance.  He  moved  toward  her  and  looked  down 
into  the  trench  where  she  waited.  Swiftly  he 
kicked  off  his  snowshoes  and  leaped  down  beside 
her. 

273 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  gleam  of  tears  was  in  her  eyes  as  she  held 
out  both  hands  to  him.  During  the  long  look 
they  gave  each  other  something  wonderful  to 
both  of  them  was  born  into  the  world. 

When  he  tried  to  speak  his  hoarse  voice  broke. 
"Sheba  —  little  Sheba!  Safe,  after  all.  Thank 
God,  you  —  you — "  He  swallowed  the  lump 
in  his  throat  and  tried  again.  "If  you  knew  — 
God,  how  I  have  suffered!  I  was  afraid  —  I 
dared  not  let  myself  think." 

A  live  pulse  beat  in  her  white  throat.  The 
tears  brimmed  over.  Then,  somehow,  she  was 
in  his  arms  weeping.  Her  eyes  slowly  turned  to 
his,  and  he  met  the  touch  of  her  surrendered  lips. 

Nature  had  brought  them  together  by  one  oi 
her  resistless  and  unpremeditated  impulses. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TWO   ON   THE   TRAIL 

A  STRESS  of  emotion  had  swept  her  into  his 
arms.  Now  she  drew  away  from  him  shyly.  The 
conventions  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up 
asserted  themselves.  Sheba  remembered  that 
they  had  been  carried  by  the  high  wave  of  their 
emotion  past  all  the  usual  preliminaries.  He  had 
not  even  told  her  that  he  loved  her.  An  absurd 
little  fear  obtruded  itself  into  her  happiness.  Had 
she  rushed  into  his  arms  like  a  lovesick  girl,  tak 
ing  it  for  granted  that  he  cared  for  her? 

"You  —  came  to  look  for  us?  "  she  asked,  with 
the  little  shy  stiffness  of  embarrassment. 

"For  you  —  yes." 

He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  a  bird  was  singing  in  his  heart  the 
gladness  he  could  not  express.  He  had  for  many 
hours  pushed  from  his  mind  pictures  of  her  lying 
white  and  rigid  on  the  snow.  Instead  she  stood 
beside  him,  her  delicate  beauty  vivid  as  the 
flush  of  a  flame. 

"  Did  they  telephone  that  we  were  lost?  " 

"Yes.  I  was  troubled  when  the  storm  grew. 
I  could  not  sleep.  So  I  called  up  the  roadhouse 

275 


The  Yukon  Trail 

by  long  distance.  They  had  not  heard  from  the 
stage.  Later  I  called  again.  When  I  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  I  started." 

"Not  on  foot?" 

"No.  With  Holt's  dog  team.  He  is  back  there. 
His  leg  is  broken.  A  snow-slide  crushed  him  this 
morning  where  we  camped." 

"Bring  him  to  the  cabin.  I  will  tell  the  others 
you  are  coming." 

"Have  you  had  any  food?"  he  asked. 

A  tired  smile  lit  up  the  shadows  of  weariness 
under  her  soft,  dark  eyes.  "Boiled  oats,  plum 
pudding,  and  chocolates,"  she  told  him. 

"  We  have  plenty  of  food  on  the  sled.  I  '11  bring 
it  at  once." 

She  nodded,  and  turned  to  go  to  the  cabin. 
He  watched  for  a  moment  the  lilt  in  her  walk. 
An  expression  from  his  reading  jumped  to  his 
mind.  Melodious  feet!  Some  poet  had  said  that, 
had  n't  he?  Surely  it  must  have  been  Sheba  of 
whom  he  was  thinking,  this  girl  so  virginal  of 
body  and  of  mind,  free  and  light-footed  as  a 
caribou  on  the  hills. 

Gordon  returned  to  the  sled  and  drove  the 
team  up  the  draw  to  the  cabin.  The  three  who 
had  been  marooned  came  to  meet  their  rescuer. 

"You  must  'a'  come  right  through  the  storm 
lickitty  split,"  Swift  water  said. 

"You're  right  we  did.  This  side  pardner  of 
276 


The  Yukon  Trail 

mine  was  hell-bent  on  wrestling  with  a  blizzard," 
Holt  answered  dryly. 

"Sorry  you  broke  your  laig,  Gid." 

"Then  there's  two  of  us  sorry,  Swiftwater. 
It's  one  of  the  best  laigs  I've  got." 

Sheba  turned  to  the  old  miner  impulsively. 
"If  you  could  be  knowing  what  I  am  thinking  of 
you,  Mr.  Holt,  —  how  full  our  hearts  are  of  the 
gratitude  — "  She  stopped,  tears  in  her  voice. 

"Sho!  No  need  of  that,  Miss.  He  dragged  me 
along."  His  thumb  jerked  toward  the  man  who 
was  driving.  "I've  seen  better  dog  punchers 
than  Elliot,  but  he's  got  the  world  beat  at  routin* 
old-timers  out  of  bed  and  persuadin'  them  to 
kick  in  with  him  and  buck  a  blizzard.  Me,  o' 
course,  I'm  an  old  fool  for  comin'  — " 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  girl  were  like  stars  in  a 
frosty  night.  "Then  you're  the  kind  of  a  fool  I 
love,  Mr.  Holt.  I  think  it  was  just  fine  of  you, 
and  I'll  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live." 

Mrs.  Olson  had  cooked  too  long  in  lumber  and 
mining  camps  not  to  know  something  about 
bone-setting.  Under  her  direction  Gordon  made 
splints  and  helped  her  bandage  the  broken  leg. 
Meanwhile  Swif twaterPete  fed  his  horses  from  the 
grain  on  the  sled  and  Sheba  cooked  an  appetiz 
ing  breakfast.  The  aroma  of  coffee  and  the  smell 
of  frying  bacon  stimulated  appetites  that  needed 
no  tempting. 

277 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Holt,  propped  up  by  blankets,  ate  with  the 
others.  For  a  good  many  years  he  had  taken  his 
luck  as  it  came  with  philosophic  endurance.  Now 
he  wasted  no  time  in  mourning  what  could  not 
be  helped.  He  was  lucky  the  ice  slide  had  not  hit 
him  in  the  head.  A  broken  leg  would  mend. 

While  they  ate,  the  party  went  into  committee 
of  the  whole  to  decide  what  was  best  to  be  done. 
Gordon  noticed  that  in  all  the  tentative  sugges 
tions  made  by  Holt  and  Swif twater  the  comfort 
of  Sheba  was  the  first  thing  in  mind. 

The  girl,  too,  noticed  it  and  smilingly  protested, 
her  soft  hand  lying  for  the  moment  on  the  gnarled 
one  of  the  old  miner. 

"It  doesn't  matter  about  me.  We  have  to 
think  of  what  will  be  best  for  Mr.  Holt,  of  how 
to  get  him  to  the  proper  care.  My  comfort  can 
wait." 

The  plan  at  last  decided  upon  was  that  Gordon 
should  make  a  dash  for  Smith's  Crossing  on  snow- 
shoes,  where  he  was  to  arrange  for  a  relief  party 
to  come  out  for  the  injured  man  and  Mrs.  Olson. 
He  was  to  return  at  once  without  waiting  for  the 
rescuers.  Next  morning  he  and  Sheba  would 
start  with  Holt's  dog  team  for  Kusiak. 

Macdonald  had  taught  Sheba  how  to  use 
snowshoes  and  she  had  been  an  apt  pupil.  From 
her  suitcase  she  got  out  her  moccasins  and  put 
them  on.  She  borrowed  the  snowshoes  of  Holt, 

278 


The  Yukon  Trail 

wrapped  herself  in  her  parka,  and  announced 
that  she  was  going  with  Elliot  part  of  the  way. 

Gordon  thought  her  movements  a  miracle  of 
supple  lightness.  Her  lines  had  the  swelling 
roundness  of  vital  youth,  her  eyes  were  alive 
with  the  eagerness  that  time  dulls  in  most  faces. 
They  spoke  little  as  they  swept  forward  over  the 
white  snow-wastes.  The  spell  of  the  great  North 
was  over  her.  Its  mystery  was  stirring  in  her 
heart,  just  as  it  had  been  when  her  lips  had 
turned  to  his  at  the  sunrise.  As  for  him,  love  ran 
through  his  veins  like  old  wine.  But  he  allowed 
his  feelings  no  expression.  For  though  she  had 
come  to  him  of  her  own  accord  for  that  one 
blessed  minute  at  dawn,  he  could  not  be  sure 
what  had  moved  her  so  deeply.  She  was  tread 
ing  a  world  primeval,  the  wonder  of  it  still  in  her 
soft  eyes.  Would  she  waken  to  love  or  to  disil 
lusion? 

He  took  care  to  see  that  she  did  not  tire.  Pres 
ently  he  stopped  and  held  out  his  hand  to  say 
good-bye. 

"Will  you  come  back  this  way?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  I  ought  to  get  here  soon  after  dark.  Will 
you  meet  me?" 

She  gave  him  a  quick,  shy  little  nod,  turned 
without  shaking  hands,  and  struck  out  for  the 
cabin.  All  through  the  day  happiness  flooded 
her  heart.  While  she  waited  on  Holt  or  helped 

279 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Mrs.  Olson  cook  or  watched  Swiftwater  while  he 
put  up  the  tent  in  the  lee  of  the  cabin,  little 
snatches  of  song  bubbled  from  her  lips.  Some 
times  they  were  bits  of  old  Irish  ballads  that 
popped  into  her  mind.  Once,  while  she  was  pre 
paring  some  coffee  for  her  patient,  it  was  a  stanza 
from  Burns:  — 

"Till  a*  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun: 
I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run." 

She  caught  old  Gideon  looking  at  her  with  a 
queer  little  smile  on  his  weather-tanned  face  and 
she  felt  the  color  beat  into  her  cheeks. 

"I  haven't  bought  a  wedding  present  for 
twenty  years,"  he  told  her  presently,  apropos 
of  nothing  that  had  been  said.  "I  won't  know 
what's  the  proper  thing  to  get,  Miss  Sheba." 

"If  you  talk  nonsense  like  that  I'll  go  out  and 
talk  to  Mr.  Swiftwater  Pete,"  she  threatened, 
blushing. 

Old  Gid  folded  his  hands  meekly.  "I'll  be 
good  —  honest  I  will.  Let's  see.  I  got  to  make 
safe  and  sane  conversation,  have  I?  Hm!  Won 
der  when  that  lazy,  long-legged,  good-for-nothing 
horsethief  and  holdup  that  calls  himself  Gordon 
Elliot  will  get  back  to  camp." 

Sheba  looked  into  his  twinkling  eyes  suspi 
ciously  as  she  handed  him  his  coffee.  For  a  mo- 

280 


The  Yukon  Trail 

raent  she  bit  her  lip  to  keep  back  a  smile,  then 
said  with  mock  severity,  — 

"Now,  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to  Mrs.  Olson." 

When  sunset  came  it  found  Sheba  on  the  trail. 
Swiftwater  Pete  had  offered  to  go  with  her,  but 
she  had  been  relieved  of  his  well-meant  kindness 
by  the  demand  of  Holt. 

"No,  you  don't,  Pete.  You  ain't  a-goin'  off 
gallivantin'  with  no  young  lady.  You  're  a-goin' 
to  stay  here  and  fix  my  game  laig  for  me.  What 
do  you  reckon  Miss  Sheba  wants  with  a  fat,  lop 
sided  lummox  like  you  along  with  her?" 

Pete  grew  purple  with  embarrassment.  He 
had  not  intended  anything  more  than  civility 
and  he  wanted  this  understood. 

"Hmp!  Ain't  you  got  no  sense  a-tall,  Gid?  If 
Miss  Sheba 's  hell-bent  on  goin'  to  meet  Elliot, 
I  allowed  some  one  ought  to  go  along  and  keep 
the  dark  off  en  her.  'Course  there  ain't  nothin'  go 
ing  to  harm  her,  unless  she  goes  and  gets  lost  — " 

Sheba's  smile  cooled  the  heat  of  the  stage- 
driver.  "Which  she  is  n't  going  to  do.  Good  of 
you  to  offer  to  go  with  me.  Don't  mind  Mr.  Holt. 
Everybody  knows  he  does  n't  mean  half  of  what 
he  says.  I  'd  be  glad  to  have  you  come  with  me, 
but  it  is  n't  necessary  at  all.  So  I  '11  not  trouble 
you." 

Darkness  fell  quickly,  but  Sheba  still  held  to 
the  trail.  There  was  no  sign  of  Elliot,  but  she 

281 


The  Yukon  Trail 

felt  sure  he  would  come  soon.  Meanwhile  she 
followed  steadily  the  tracks  he  had  made  earlier 
in  the  day. 

She  stopped  at  last.  It  was  getting  much 
colder.  She  was  miles  from  the  camp.  Reluct 
antly  she  decided  to  return.  Then,  out  of  the 
darkness,  he  came  abruptly  upon  her,  the  man 
whom  she  had  come  out  to  meet. 

Under  the  magic  of  the  Northern  stars  they 
found  themselves  again  in  each  other's  arms  for 
that  brief  moment  of  joyful  surprise.  Then,  as 
it  had  been  in  the  morning,  Sheba  drew  herself 
shyly  away. 

"They  are  waiting  supper  for  us,"  she  told  him 
irrelevantly. 

He  did  not  shout  out  his  happiness  and  tell  her 
to  let  them  wait.  For  Gordon,  too,  felt  awed  at 
this  wonderful  adventure  of  love  that  had  befal 
len  them.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  they  were 
moving  side  by  side,  alone  in  the  deep  snows  and 
the  biting  cold,  that  waves  of  emotion  crashed 
through  his  pulses  when  his  swinging  hand 
touched  hers. 

They  were  acutely  conscious  of  each  other. 
Excitement  burned  in  the  eyes  that  turned  to 
swift,  reluctant  meetings.  She  was  a  woman, 
and  he  was  her  lover.  Neither  of  them  dared 
quite  accept  the  fact  yet,  but  it  filled  the  back 
ground  of  all  their  thoughts  with  delight. 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Sheba  did  not  want  to  talk  of  this  new,  amaz 
ing  thing  that  had  come  into  her  life.  It  was  too 
sacred  a  subject  to  discuss  just  yet  even  with  him. 
So  she  began  to  tell  him  odd  fancies  from  child 
hood  that  lingered  in  her  Celtic  heart,  tales  of 
the  "little  folk"  that  were  half  memories  and 
half  imaginings,  stirred  to  life  by  some  odd  asso 
ciation  of  sky  and  stars.  She  laughed  softly  at 
herself  as  she  told  them,  but  Gordon  did  not 
laugh  at  her. 

Everything  she  did  was  for  him  divinely  done. 
Even  when  his  eyes  were  on  the  dark  trail  ahead 
he  saw  only  the  dusky  loveliness  of  curved  cheek, 
the  face  luminous  with  a  radiance  some  women 
are  never  privileged  to  know,  the  rhythm  of  head 
and  body  and  slender  legs  that  was  part  of  her 
individual,  heaven-sent  charm. 

The  rest  had  finished  supper  before  Gordon 
and  Sheba  reached  camp,  but  Mrs.  Olson  had  a 
hot  meal  waiting  for  them. 

"I  fixed  up  the  tent  for  the  women  folks  — 
stove,  sleeping-bags,  plenty  of  wood.  Touch  a 
match  to  the  fire  and  it'll  be  snug  as  a  bug  in  a 
rug,"  explained  Swift  water  to  Gordon. 

Elliot  and  Sheba  were  to  start  early  for  Ku- 
siak  and  later  the  rescue  party  would  arrive  to 
take  care  of  Holt  and  Mrs.  Olson. 

"Time  to  turn  in,"  Holt  advised.  "You  better 
light  that  stove,  Elliot." 

283 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  young  man  was  still  in  the  tent  arranging 
the  sleeping-bags  when  Sheba  entered.  He  tried 
to  walk  out  without  touching  her,  intending  to 
call  back  his  good-night.  But  he  could  not  do  it. 
There  was  something  flamey  about  her  to-night 
that  went  to  his  head.  Her  tender,  tremulous 
little  smile  and  the  turn  of  the  buoyant  little 
head  stirred  in  him  a  lover's  rhapsody. 

"It's  to  be  a  long  trail  we  cover  to-morrow, 
Sheba.  You  must  sleep.  Good-night." 

"Good-night  —  Gordon." 

There  was  a  little  flash  of  audacity  in  the  whim 
sical  twist  of  her  mouth.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  called  him  by  his  given  name. 

Elliot  threw  away  prudence  and  caught  her 
by  the  hands. 

"My  dear  —  my  dear!"  he  cried. 

She  trembled  to  his  kiss,  gave  herself  to  his 
embrace  with  innocent  passion.  Tendrils  of  hair, 
fine  as  silk,  brushed  his  cheeks  and  sent  strange 
thrills  through  him. 

They  talked  the  incoherent  language  of  lovers 
that  is  compounded  of  murmurs  and  silences  and 
the  touch  of  lips  and  the  meetings  of  eyes.  There 
were  to  be  other  nights  in  their  lives  as  rich  in 
memories  as  this,  but  never  another  with  quite 
the  same  delight. 

Presently  Sheba  reminded  him  with  a  smile  of 
the  long  trail  he  had  mentioned.  Mrs.  Olson 


The  Yukon  Trail 

bustled  into  the  tent,  and  her  presence  stressed 
the  point. 

"Good-night,  neighbors,"  Gordon  called  back 
from  outside  the  tent. 

Sheba's  "Good-night"  echoed  softly  back  to 
him. 

The  girl  fell  asleep  to  the  sound  of  the  light 
breeze  slapping  the  tent  and  to  the  doleful 
howling  of  the  huskies. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A   MESSAGE  FROM   THE   DEAD 

MACDONALD  drove  his  team  into  the  teeth  of 
the  storm.  The  wind  came  in  gusts.  Sometimes 
the  gale  was  so  stiff  that  the  dogs  could  scarcely 
crawl  forward  against  it;  again  there  were  mo 
ments  of  comparative  stillness,  followed  by 
squalls  that  slapped  the  driver  in  the  face  like 
the  whipping  of  a  loose  sail  on  a  catboat. 

High  drifts  made  the  trail  difficult.  Not  once 
but  fifty  times  Macdonald  left  the  gee-pole  to 
break  a  way  through  snow-waves  for  the  sled. 
The  best  he  could  get  out  of  his  dogs  was  three 
miles  an  hour,  and  he  knew  that  there  was  not 
another  team  or  driver  in  the  North  could  have 
done  so  well. 

It  was  close  to  noon  when  he  reached  a  division 
of  the  road  known  as  the  Fork.  One  trail  ran 
down  to  the  river  and  up  it  to  the  distant  creeks. 
The  other  led  across  the  divide,  struck  the 
Yukon,  and  pointed  a  way  to  the  coast.  White 
drifts  had  long  since  blotted  out  the  track  of  the 
sled  that  had  preceded  him.  Had  the  fugitives 
gone  up  the  river  to  the  creeks  with  intent  to 
hole  themselves  up  for  the  winter?  Or  was  it 

286 


The  Yukon  Trail 

their  purpose  to  cross  the  divide  and  go  out  over 
the  ice  to  the  coast? 

The  pursuer  knew  that  Gid  Holt  was  wise  as  a 
weasel.  He  could  follow  blindfolded  the  paths 
that  led  to  every  creek  in  the  gold-fields.  It 
might  be  taken  as  a  certainty  that  he  had  not 
plunged  into  such  a  desperate  venture  without 
having  a  plan  well  worked  out  beforehand. 
Elliot  had  a  high  grade  of  intelligence.  Would 
they  try  to  reach  the  coast  and  make  their  get 
away  to  Seattle?  Or  would  they  dig  themselves 
in  till  the  heavy  snows  were  past  and  come  back 
to  civilization  with  the  story  of  a  lucky  strike  to 
account  for  the  gold  they  brought  with  them? 
Neither  gold-dust  nor  nuggets  could  be  identified. 
There  would  be  no  way  of  proving  the  story  false. 
The  only  evidence  against  them  would  be  that 
they  had  left  at  Kusiak  and  this  was  merely  of  a 
corroborative  kind.  There  would  be  no  chance 
of  convicting  them  upon  it. 

But  to  strike  for  Seattle  was  to  throw  away  all 
pretense  of  innocence.  Fugitives  from  justice, 
they  would  have  to  disappear  from  sight  in  order 
to  escape.  The  hunt  for  them  would  continue 
until  at  last  they  were  unearthed. 

One  fork  of  the  road  led  to  comparative  safety; 
the  other  went  by  devious  windings  to  the  peni 
tentiary  and  perhaps  the  gallows.  The  Scotch 
man  put  himself  in  the  place  of  the  men  he  was 

287 


The  Yukon  Trail 

trailing.  Given  the  same  conditions,  he  knew 
which  path  he  would  follow. 

Macdonald  took  the  trail  that  led  down  to  the 
river,  to  the  distant  gold-creeks  which  offered  a 
refuge  from  man-hunters  in  many  a  deserted 
cabin  marooned  by  the  deep  snows. 

Even  the  iron  frame  and  steel  muscles  of  the 
Scotch-Canadian  protested  against  the  task  he 
had  set  them  that  day.  It  was  a  time  to  sit 
snugly  inside  by  a  stove  and  listen  to  the  howling 
of  the  wind  as  it  hurled  itself  down  from  the 
divide.  But  from  daylight  till  dark  Colby  Mac 
donald  fought  with  drifts  and  breasted  the  storm. 
He  got  into  the  harness  with  the  dogs.  He  broke 
trail  for  them,  cheered  them,  soothed,  comforted, 
punished.  Long  after  night  had  fallen  he  stag 
gered  into  the  hut  of  two  prospectors,  his  parka 
so  stiff  with  frozen  snow  that  it  had  to  be  beaten 
with  a  hammer  before  the  coat  could  be  removed. 

"How  long  since  a  dog  team  passed  —  seven 
huskies  and  two  men?"  was  his  first  question. 

"No  dog  team  has  passed  for  four  days,"  one 
of  the  men  answered. 

"You  mean  you  have  n't  seen  one,"  Macdon 
ald  corrected. 

"I  mean  none  has  passed  —  unless  it  went  by 
in  the  night  while  we  slept.  And  even  then  our 
dogs  would  have  warned  us." 

Macdonald  flung  his  ice-coated  gloves  to  a 
288 


The  Yukon  Trail 

table  and  stooped  to  take  off  his  mukluks.  His 
face  was  blue  with  the  cold,  but  the  bleak  look 
in  the  eyes  came  from  within.  He  said  nothing 
more  until  he  was  free  of  his  wet  clothes.  Then 
he  sat  down  heavily  and  passed  a  hand  over  his 
frozen  eyebrows. 

"  Get  me  something  to  eat  and  take  care  of  my 
dogs.  There  is  food  for  them  on  the  sled,"  he 
said. 

While  he  ate  he  told  them  of  the  bank  robbery 
and  the  murder.  Their  resentment  against  the 
men  who  had  done  it  was  quite  genuine.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  they  told  the  truth  when  they 
said  no  sled  had  preceded  his.  They  were  hon 
est,  reliable  prospectors.  He  knew  them  both 
well. 

The  weary  man  slept  like  a  log.  He  opened  his 
eyes  next  morning  to  find  one  of  his  hosts  shak 
ing  him. 

"Six  o'clock,  Mr.  Macdonald.  Your  breakfast 
is  ready.  Jim  is  looking  out  for  the  huskies." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Scotchman  gave  the 
order,  "Mush!"  He  was  off  again,  this  time  on 
the  back  trail  as  far  as  the  Narrows,  from  which 
point  he  meant  to  strike  across  to  intersect  the 
fork  of  the  road  leading  to  the  divide. 

The  storm  had  passed  and  when  the  late  sun 
rose  it  was  in  a  blue  sky.  Fine  enough  the  day 
was  overhead,  but  the  slushy  snow,  where  it  was 

289 


The  Yukon  Trail 

worn  thin  on  the  river  by  the  sweep  of  the  wind, 
made  heavy  travel  for  the  dogs.  Macdonald  was 
glad  enough  to  reach  the  Narrows,  where  he 
could  turn  from  the  river  and  cut  across  to  hit 
the  trail  of  the  men  he  was  following.  He  had 
about  five  miles  to  go  before  he  would  reach  the 
Smith  Crossing  road  and  every  foot  of  it  he 
would  have  to  break  trail  for  the  dogs.  This  was 
slow  business,  since  he  had  no  partner  at  the 
gee-pole.  Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth  he 
trudged,  beating  down  the  loose  snow  for  the 
runners.  It  was  a  hill  trail,  and  the  drifts  were 
in  most  places  not  very  deep.  But  the  Scotchman 
was  doing  the  work  of  two,  and  at  a  killing  pace. 

Over  a  ridge  the  team  plunged  down  into  a 
little  park  where  the  snow  was  deeper.  Macdon 
ald,  breaking  trail  across  the  mountain  valley, 
found  his  feet  weighted  with  packed  ice  slush  so 
that  he  could  hardly  move  them.  When  at  last 
he  had  beaten  down  a  path  for  his  dogs  he  stood 
breathing  deep  at  the  summit  of  the  slope.  Be 
fore  him  lay  the  main  road  to  Smith's  Crossing, 
scarce  fifty  yards  away.  He  gave  a  deep  whoop 
of  triumph,  for  along  it  ran  the  wavering  tracks 
left  by  a  sled.  He  was  on  the  heels  of  his  enemy 
at  last. 

As  he  turned  back  to  his  Siberian  hounds,  the 
eyes  of  Macdonald  came  to  abrupt  attention. 
On  the  hillside,  not  ten  yards  from  him,  some- 

290 


The  Yukon  Trail 

thing  stuck  out  of  the  snow  like  a  signpost.  It 
was  the  foot  of  a  man. 

Slowly  Macdoriald  moved  toward  it.  He  knew 
well  enough  what  he  had  stumbled  across  —  one 
of  the  tragedies  that  in  the  North  are  likely  to 
be  found  in  the  wake  of  every  widespread  bliz 
zard.  Some  unfortunate  traveler,  blinded  by  the 
white  swirl,  had  wandered  from  the  trail  and 
had  staggered  up  a  draw  to  his  death. 

With  a  little  digging  the  Alaskan  uncovered  a 
leg.  The  man  had  died  where  he  had  fallen,  face 
down.  Macdonald  scooped  away  the  snow  and 
found  a  pack  strapped  to  the  back  of  the  buried 
man.  He  cut  the  thongs  and  tried  to  ease  it  away. 
But  the  gunnysack  had  frozen  to  the  parka. 
When  he  pulled,  the  rotten  sacking  gave  way 
under  the  strain.  The  contents  of  the  pack 
spilled  out. 

The  eyes  in  the  grim  face  of  Macdonald  grew 
hard  and  steely.  He  had  found,  by  some  strange 
freak  of  chance,  much  more  than  he  had  expected 
to  find.  Using  his  snowshoe  as  a  shovel,  he  dug 
the  body  free  and  turned  it  over.  At  sight  of  the 
face  he  gave  a  cry  of  astonishment. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"DON'T  TOUCH  HIM!  DON'T  YOU  DARE 
TOUCH  HIM!" 

GORDON  overslept.  His  plan  had  been  to  reach 
Kusiak  at  the  end  of  a  long  day's  travel,  but  that 
had  meant  getting  on  the  trail  with  the  first 
gleam  of  light.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  Mrs. 
Olson  was  calling  him  to  rise. 

He  dressed  and  stepped  out  into  the  cold,  crisp 
morning.  From  the  hill  crotch  the  sun  was 
already  pouring  down  a  great,  fanlike  shaft 
of  light  across  the  snow  vista.  Swiftwater  Pete 
passed  behind  him  on  his  way  to  the  stable  and 
called  a  cheerful  good-morning  in  his  direction. 

Mrs.  Olson  had  put  the  stove  outside  the  tent 
and  Gordon  lifted  it  to  the  spot  where  they  did 
the  cooking. 

"  Good-morning,  neighbor,"  he  called  to  Sheba. 
"Sleep  well?" 

The  little  rustling  sounds  within  the  tent 
ceased.  A  face  appeared  in  the  doorway,  the  flaps 
drawn  discreetly  close  beneath  the  chin. 

"Never  better.   Is  my  breakfast  ready  yet?" 

"Come  and  help  me  make  it.  Mrs.  Olson  is 
waiting  on  Holt." 

292 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"When  I'm  dressed."  The  smiling  face  disap 
peared.  "Dublin  Bay"  sounded  in  her  fresh 
young  voice  from  the  tent.  Gordon  joined  in  the 
song  as  he  lit  the  fire  and  sliced  bacon  from  a 
frozen  slab  of  it. 

The  howling  of  the  huskies  interrupted  the 
song.  They  had  evidently  heard  something  that 
excited  them.  Gordon  listened.  Was  it  in  his 
fancy  only  that  the  breeze  carried  to  him  the 
faint  jingle  of  sleigh-bells?  The  sound,  if  it  was 
one,  died  away.  The  cook  turned  to  his  job. 

He  stopped  sawing  at  the  meat,  knife  and 
bacon  both  suspended  in  the  air.  On  the  hard 
snow  there  had  come  to  him  the  crunch  of  a  foot 
behind  him.  Whose?  Sheba  was  in  the  tent, 
Swiftwater  at  the  stable,  Mrs.  Olson  in  the  house. 
Slowly  he  turned  his  head. 

What  Elliot  saw  sent  the  starch  through  his 
body.  He  did  not  move  an  inch,  still  sat  crouched 
by  the  fire,  but  every  nerve  was  at  tension,  every 
muscle  taut.  For  he  was  looking  at  a  rifle  lying 
negligently  in  brown,  steady  hands.  They  were 
very  sure  hands,  very  competent  ones.  He  knew 
that  because  he  had  seen  them  in  action.  The 
owner  of  the  hands  was  Colby  Macdonald. 

The  Scotch-Canadian  stood  at  the  edge  of  a 
willow  grove.  His  face  was  grim  as  the  day  of 
judgment. 

"Don't  move,"  he  ordered. 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Elliot  laughed  irritably.  He  was  both  annoyed 
and  disgusted. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  snapped. 

"You." 

"What's  worrying  you  now?  Do  you  think 
I'm  jumping  my  bond?" 

"You're  going  back  to  Kusiak  with  me  —  to 
give  a  life  for  the  one  you  took." 

"What's  that?"  cried  Gordon,  surprised. 

"Just  as  I'm  telling  you.  I've  been  on  your 
heels  ever  since  you  left  town.  You  and  Holt  are 
going  back  with  me  as  my  prisoners." 

"But  what  for?" 

"For  robbing  the  bank  and  murdering  Robert 
Milton,  as  you  know  well  enough." 

"Is  this  another  plant  arranged  for  me  by  you 
and  Selfridge?"  demanded  Elliot. 

Macdonald  ignored  the  question  and  lifted  his 
voice.  "  Come  out  of  that  tent,  Holt,  —  and  come 
with  your  hands  up  unless  you  want  your  head 
blown  off." 

"Holt  isn't  in  that  tent,  you  damned  idiot. 
If  you  want  to  know  — " 

"Come  now,  if  you  expect  to  come  alive,"  cut 
in  the  Scotchman  ominously.  He  raised  the  rifle 
to  his  shoulder  and  covered  the  shadow  thrown 
by  the  sun  on  the  figure  within. 

Gordon  flung  out  a  wild  protest  and  threw  the 
frozen  slab  of  bacon  at  the  head  of  Macdonald. 

294 


The  Yukon  Trail 

With  the  same  motion  he  launched  his  own  body 
across  the  stove.  A  fifth  of  a  second  earlier  the 
tent  flap  had  opened  and  Sheba  had  come  out. 

The  sight  of  her  paralyzed  Macdonald  and 
saved  her  lover's  life.  It  distracted  the  mine- 
owner  long  enough  for  him  to  miss  his  chance. 
A  bullet  struck  the  stove  and  went  off  at  a  tan 
gent  through  the  tent  canvas  not  two  feet  from 
where  Sheba  stood.  A  second  went  speeding 
toward  the  sun.  For  Gordon  had  followed  the 
football  player's  instinct  and  dived  for  the  knees 
of  his  enemy. 

They  went  down  together.  Each  squirming 
for  the  upper  place,  they  rolled  over  and  over. 
The  rifle  was  forgotten.  Like  cave  men  they 
fought,  crushing  and  twisting  each  other's  mus 
cles  with  the  blind  lust  of  primordials  to  kill.  As 
they  clinched  with  one  arm,  they  struck  savagely 
with  the  other.  The  impact  of  smashing  blows 
on  naked  flesh  sounded  horribly  cruel  to  Sheba. 

She  ran  forward,  calling  on  each  by  name  to 
stop.  Probably  neither  knew  she  was  there. 
Their  whole  attention  was  focused  on  each  other. 
Not  for  an  instant  did  their  eyes  wander,  for  life 
and  death  hung  on  the  issue.  Chance  had  lit  the 
spark  of  their  resentment,  but  long-banked  pas 
sions  were  blazing  fiercely  now. 

They  got  to  their  feet  and  fought  toe  to  toe. 
Sledge-hammer  blows  beat  upon  bleeding  and 

295 


The  Yukon  Trail 

disfigured  faces.  No  thought  of  defense  as  yet 
was  in  the  mind  of  either.  The  purpose  of  each 
was  to  bruise,  maim,  make  helpless  the  other. 
But  for  the  impotent  little  cries  of  Sheba  no 
sound  broke  the  stillness  save  the  crunch  of  their 
feet  on  the  hard  snow,  the  thud  of  heavy  fists  on 
flesh,  and  the  throaty  snarl  of  their  deep,  irregu 
lar  breathing. 

Gid  Holt,  from  the  window  of  the  cabin, 
watched  the  battle  with  shining  eyes.  He  ex 
ulted  in  every  blow  of  Gordon;  he  suffered  with 
him  when  the  smashing  rights  and  lefts  of  Mac- 
donald  got  home.  He  shouted  jeers,  advice, 
threats,  encouragement.  If  he  had  had  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  wagered  on  the  outcome  he  could 
not  have  been  more  excited. 

Swiftwater  Pete,  drawn  by  the  cries  of  Sheba, 
came  running  from  the  stable.  As  he  passed  the 
window,  Holt  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"What  are  you  aimin'  to  do,  Pete?  Let  'em 
alone.  Let  'em  go  to  it.  They  got  to  have  it  out. 
Stop  'em  now  and  they'll  get  at  it  with  guns." 

Sheba  ran  up,  wringing  her  hands.  "  Stop  them, 
please.  They're  killing  each  other." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  girl.  You  let  'em  alone, 
Pete.  The  kid's  there  every  minute,  ain't  he? 
Gee,  that's  a  good  one,  boy.  Seven  —  eleven  — 
ninety-two.  'Attaboy ! " 

Macdonald  had  slipped  on  the  snow  and  gone 
296 


The  Yukon  Trail 

down  to  his  hands  and  knees.  Swift  as  a  wildcat 
the  younger  man  was  on  top  of  him.  Hampered 
though  he  was  by  his  parka,  the  Scotchman 
struggled  slowly  to  his  feet  again.  He  was  much 
the  heavier  man,  and  in  spite  of  his  years  the 
stronger.  The  muscles  stood  out  in  knots  on  his 
shoulders  and  across  his  back,  whereas  on  the 
body  of  his  more  slender  opponent  they  flowed 
and  rippled  in  rounded  symmetry.  Active  as  a 
heather  cat,  Elliot  was  far  the  quicker  of  the  two. 

Half-blinded  by  the  hammering  he  had  re 
ceived,  Gordon  changed  his  method  of  fighting. 
He  broke  away  from  the  clinch  and  sidestepped 
the  bull-like  rush  of  his  foe,  covering  up  as  well 
as  he  could  from  the  onset.  Macdonald  pressed 
the  attack  and  was  beaten  back  by  hard,  straight 
lefts  and  rights  to  the  unprotected  face. 

The  mine-owner  shook  the  matted  hair  from 
his  swollen  eyes  and  rushed  again.  He  caught  an 
uppercut  flush  on  the  end  of  the  chin.  It  did  not 
even  stop  him.  The  weight  of  his  body  was  in 
the  blow  he  lashed  up  from  his  side. 

The  knees  of  Elliot  doubled  up  under  him  like 
the  blade  of  a  jackknife.  He  sank  down  slowly, 
turned,  got  to  his  hands  and  knees,  and  tried  to 
shake  off  the  tons  of  weight  that  seemed  to  be 
holding  him  down. 

Macdonald  seized  him  about  the  waist  and 
flung  him  to  the  ground.  Upon  the  inert  body 

297 


The  Yukon  Trail 

the  victor  dropped,  his  knees  clinching  the  torso 
of  the  unconscious  man. 

"Now,  Pete.    Go  to  him,"  urged  Holt  wildly. 

But  before  Swiftwater  could  move,  before  the 
great  fist  of  Macdonald  could  smash  down  upon 
the  bleeding  face  upturned  to  his,  a  sharp  blow 
struck  the  flesh  of  the  raised  forearm  and  for 
the  moment  stunned  the  muscles.  The  Scotch- 
Canadian  lifted  a  countenance  drunk  with  rage, 
passion-tossed. 

Slowly  the  light  of  reason  came  back  into  his 
eyes.  Sheba  was  standing  before  him,  his  rifle  in 
her  hand.  She  had  struck  him  with  the  butt  of  it. 

"Don't  touch  him!  Don't  you  dare  touch 
him!"  she  challenged. 

He  looked  at  her  long,  then  let  his  eyes  fall  to 
the  battered  face  of  his  enemy.  Drunkenly  he 
got  to  his  feet  and  leaned  against  a  willow.  His 
forces  were  spent,  his  muscles  weighted  as  with 
lead.  But  it  was  not  this  alone  that  made  his 
breath  come  short  and  raggedly. 

Sheba  had  flung  herself  down  beside  her  lover. 
She  had  caught  him  tightly  in  her  arms  so  that 
his  disfigured  face  lay  against  her  warm  bosom. 
In  the  eyes  lifted  to  those  of  the  mine-owner  was 
an  unconquerable  defiance. 

"He's  mine  —  mine,  you  murderer,"  she 
panted  fiercely.  "If  you  kill  him,  you  must  kill 
me  first." 

298 


The  Yukon  Trail 

The  man  she  had  once  promised  to  marry  was 
looking  at  a  different  woman  from  the  girl  he  had 
known.  The  soft,  shy  youth  of  her  was  gone. 
She  was  a  forest  mother  of  the  wilds  ready  to 
fight  for  her  young,  a  wife  ready  to  go  to  the 
stake  for  the  husband  of  her  choice.  An  emotion 
primitive  and  poignant  had  transformed  her. 

His  eyes  burned  at  her  the  question  his  parched 
lips  and  throat  could  scarcely  utter.  "So  you  .  .  . 
love  him?" 

But  though  it  was  in  form  a  question  he  knew 
already  the  answer.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  began  to  taste  the  bitterness  of  defeat.  Always 
he  had  won  what  he  coveted  by  brutal  force  or  his 
stark  will.  But  it  was  beyond  him  to  compel  the 
love  of  a  girl  who  had  given  her  heart  to  another. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

Her  hair  in  two  thick  braids  was  flung  across 
her  shoulders,  her  dark  head  thrown  back  proudly 
from  the  rounded  throat. 

Macdonald  smiled,  but  there  was  no  mirth  in 
his  savage  eyes.  "Do  you  know  what  I  want 
writh  him  —  why  I  have  come  to  get  him?" 

"No." 

"I've  come  to  take  him  back  to  Kusiak  to  be 
hanged  because  he  murdered  Milton,  the  bank 
cashier." 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  blazed  at  him.  "Are 
you  mad?" 

299 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"It's  the  truth."  Macdonald's  voice  was  curt 
and  harsh.  "  He  and  Holt  were  robbing  the  bank 
when  Milton  came  back  from  the  dance  at  the 
club.  The  cowards  shot  down  the  old  man  like  a 
dog.  They'll  hang  for  it  if  it  costs  me  my  last 
penny,  so  help  me  God." 

"You  say  it's  the  truth,"  she  retorted  scorn 
fully.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  know  you  now  — 
how  you  twist  and  distort  facts  to  suit  your  ends? 
How  long  is  it  since  your  jackal  had  him  arrested 
for  assaulting  you  —  when  Wally  Selfridge  knew 
—  and  you  knew  —  that  he  had  risked  his  life 
for  you  and  had  saved  yours  by  bringing  you  to 
Diane's  after  he  had  bandaged  your  wounds?" 

"That  was  different.  It  was  part  of  the  game 
of  politics  we  were  playing." 

"You  admit  that  you  and  your  friends  lied 
then.  Is  it  like  you  could  persuade  me  that  you  're 
telling  the  truth  now?" 

The  big  Alaskan  shrugged.  "Believe  it  or  not 
as  you  like.  Anyhow,  he's  going  back  with  me  to 
Kusiak  —  and  Holt,  too,  if  he's  here." 

An  excited  cackle  cut  into  the  conversation, 
followed  by  a  drawling  announcement  from  the 
window.  "Your  old  tillicum  is  right  here,  Mac. 
What's  the  use  of  waiting?  Why  don't  you  have 
your  hanging-bee  now?" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

HOLT   FREES   HIS   MIND 

MACDONALD  whirled  in  his  tracks. 

Old  Gid  Holt  was  leaning  on  his  elbow  with  his 
head  out  of  the  window.  "You  better  come  and 
beat  me  up  first,  Mac,"  he  jeered.  "I 'm  all  stove 
up  with  a  busted  laig,  so  you  can  wollop  me  good. 
I'd  come  out  there,  but  I'm  too  crippled  to 


move." 


"You're  not  too  crippled  to  go  back  to  Kusiak 

with  me.    If  you  can't  walk,  you'll  ride.    But 

back  you  go." 

"Fine.  I  been  worrying  about  how  to  get  there. 

It's  right  good  of  you  to  bring  one  of  these  here 

taxis  for  me,  as  the  old  sayin'  is." 

"Where  is  the  rest  of  the  gold  you  stole?" 
"I  ain't  seen  the  latest  papers,  Mac.   What  is 

this  stuff  about  robbin'  a  bank  and  shootin' 

Milton?" 

'*  You  're  under  arrest  for  robbery  and  murder." 
"Am  I?   Unload  the  particulars.    When  did  I 

do  it  all?" 

"You  know  when.  Just  before  you  left  town." 
Holt  shook  his  head  slowly.   "No,  sir.   I  can't 

seem  to  remember  it.  Sure  it  ain't  some  one  else 

301 


The  Yukon  Trail 

you're  thinking  about?  Howcome  you  to  fix  on 
me  as  one  of  the  bold,  bad  bandits?" 

"Because  you  had  not  sense  enough  to  cover 
your  tracks.  You  might  just  as  well  have  left  a 
note  saying  you  did  it.  First,  you  come  to  town 
and  buy  one  of  the  fastest  dog  teams  in  Alaska. 
Why?" 

"That's  an  easy  one.  I  bought  that  team  to 
win  the  Alaska  Sweepstakes  from  you.  And  I  'm 
goin'  to  do  it.  The  team  was  n't  handled  right  or 
it  would  have  won  last  time.  I  got  to  millin'  it 
over  and  figured  that  old  Gid  Holt  was  the  dog 
puncher  that  could  land  those  huskies  in  front. 
See?" 

"You  bought  it  to  make  your  getaway  after 
the  robbery,"  retorted  Macdonald. 

"It's  a  difference  of  opinion  makes  horse 
races.  What  else  have  you  got  against  us?" 

"We  found  in  your  room  one  of  the  sacks  that 
had  held  the  gold  you  took  from  the  bank." 

"That's  right.  I  took  it  from  the  bank  in  the 
afternoon,  where  I  had  had  it  on  deposit,  to  pay 
for  the  team  I  bought.  Milton's  books  will  show 
that.  But  you  did  n't  find  any  sack  I  took  when 
your  bank  was  robbed  —  if  it  was  robbed/'added 
the  old  man  significantly. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  you  would  have  an  alibi. 
Have  you  got  one  to  explain  why  you  left  town 
so  suddenly  the  night  the  bank  was  robbed? 

302 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Milton  was  killed  after  midnight.  Before  morn 
ing  you  and  your  friend  Elliot  routed  out  Ackroyd 
and  bought  a  lot  of  supplies  from  him  for  a 
hurry-up  trip.  You  slipped  around  to  the  corral 
and  hit  the  trail  right  into  the  blizzard.  Will  you 
tell  me  why  you  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
away,  if  it  was  n't  to  escape  from  the  town  where 
you  had  murdered  a  decent  old  fellow  who  never 
had  harmed  a  soul?" 

"  Sure  I  '11  tell  you."  The  black  eyes  of  the  little 
man  snapped  eagerly.  "I  came  so  p.  d.  q.  be 
cause  that  side  pardner  of  mine  Gordon  Elliot 
would  n't  let  me  wait  till  mornin'.  He  had  a 
reason  for  leavin'  town  that  would  n't  wait  a 
minute,  one  big  enough  to  drive  him  right  into 
the  heart  of  the  blizzard.  Me,  I  tagged  along." 

"I  can  guess  his  reason,"  jeered  the  Scotch 
man.  "  But  I  'd  like  to  hear  you  put  a  name  to  it." 

Holt  grinned  maliciously  and  waved  a  hand 
toward  the  girl  who  was  pillowing  the  head  of  her 
lover.  "The  name  of  his  reason  is  Sheba  O'Neill, 
but  it's  goin'  to  be  Sheba  Elliot  soon,  looks  like." 

" You  mean—  " 

The  little  miner  took  the  words  triumphantly 
out  of  his  mouth.  He  leaned  forward  and  threw 
them  into  the  face  of  the  man  he  hated.  "  I  mean 
that  while  you  was  dancin'  and  philanderin'  with 
other  women,  Gordon  Elliot  was  buckin'  a  bliz 
zard  to  save  the  life  of  the  girl  you  both  claimed 

303 


The  Yukon  Trail 

to  love.  He  was  mushin'  into  fifty  miles  of  frozen 
hell  while  you  was  fillin'  up  with  potted  grouse 
and  champagne.  Simultaneous  with  the  lame 
goose  and  the  monkey  singlestep  you  was  doin/ 
this  lad  was  windjammin'  through  white  drifts. 
He  beat  you  at  your  own  game,  man.  You're  a 
bear  for  the  outdoor  stuff,  they  tell  me.  You 
chew  up  a  blizzard  for  breakfast  and  throttle  a 
pack  of  wolves  to  work  up  an  appetite  for  dinner. 
It 's  your  specialty.  All  right.  Take  your  hat  off 
to  that  chechacko  who  has  just  whaled  you  blind. 
He  has  outgamed  you,  Colby  Macdonald.  You 
don't  run  in  his  class.  I  see  he  is  holding  his  haid 
up  again.  Give  him  another  half -hour  and  he'd 
be  ready  to  go  to  the  mat  with  you  again." 

The  big  Alaskan  pushed  away  a  fear  that  had 
been  lingering  in  his  mind  ever  since  he  had 
stumbled  on  that  body  buried  in  the  snow  yes 
terday  afternoon.  Was  his  enemy  going  to  escape 
him,  after  all?  Could  Holt  be  telling  the  true 
reason  why  they  had  left  town  so  hurriedly?  He 
would  not  let  himself  believe  it. 

"You  ought  to  work  up  a  better  story  than 
that,"  he  said  contemptuously.  "You  can  throw 
a  husky  through  the  holes  in  it.  How  could  Elliot 
know,  for  instance,  that  Miss  O'Neill  was  not 
safe?" 

"The  same  way  you  could'  a'  known  it," 
snapped  old  Gideon.  "He  'phoned  to  Smith's 

304 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Crossin'  and  found  the  stage  had  n't  got  in  and 
that  there  was  a  hell  of  a  storm  up  in  the  hills." 

Macdonald  set  his  face.  "You're  lying  to  me. 
You  stumbled  over  the  stage  while  you  were 
making  your  getaway.  Now  you  're  playing  it  for 
an  alibi." 

Elliot  had  risen.  Sheba  stood  beside  him,  her 
hand  in  his.  She  spoke  quietly. 

"  It 's  the  truth.  Believe  it  or  not  as  you  please. 
We  care  nothing  about  that." 

The  stab  of  her  eyes,  the  carriage  of  the  slim, 
pliant  figure  with  its  suggestion  of  fine  gallantry, 
challenged  her  former  lover  to  do  his  worst. 

On  the  battered  face  of  Gordon  was  a  smile. 
So  long  as  his  Irish  sweetheart  stood  by  him  he 
did  not  care  if  he  were  charged  with  high  treason. 
It  was  worth  all  it  cost  to  feel  the  warmth  of  her 
brave,  impulsive  trust. 

The  deep-set  eyes  of  Macdonald  clinched  with 
those  of  his  rival.  "You  cached  the  rest  of  the 
gold,  I  suppose,"  he  said  doggedly. 

With  a  lift  of  his  shoulders  the  younger  man 
answered  lightly.  "There  are  none  so  blind  as 
those  who  will  not  see,  Mr.  Macdonald."  He 
turned  to  Sheba.  "Come.  We  must  make  break 
fast." 

"You're  going  to  Kusiak  with  me,"  his  enemy 
said  bluntly. 

"After  we  have  eaten,  Mr.  Macdonald,"  re- 
305 


The  Yukon  Trail 

turned  Elliot  with  an  ironic  bow.  "Perhaps,  if 
you  have  not  had  breakfast  yet,  you  will  join  us." 

"We  start  in  half  an  hour,"  announced  the 
mine-owner  curtly,  and  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

The  rifle  lay  where  Sheba  had  dropped  it  when 
she  ran  to  gather  her  stricken  lover  into  her  arms. 
Macdonald  picked  it  up  and  strode  over  the  brow 
of  the  hill  without  a  backward  look.  He  was  too 
proud  to  stay  and  watch  them.  It  was  impossible 
to  escape  him  in  the  deep  snow  that  filled  the 
hill  trails,  and  he  was  convinced  they  would  at 
tempt  nothing  of  the  kind. 

The  Scotchman  felt  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
old  and  spent.  Under  tremendous  difficulty  he 
had  mushed  for  two  days  and  had  at  last  run  his 
men  down.  The  lust  of  vengeance  had  sat  on  his 
shoulders  every  mile  of  the  way  and  had  driven 
him  feverishly  forward.  But  the  salt  that  had 
lent  a  savor  to  his  passion  was  gone.  Even  though 
he  won,  he  lost.  For  Sheba  had  gone  over  to  the 
enemy. 

With  the  fierce  willfulness  of  his  temperament 
he  tried  to  tread  under  foot  his  doubts  about  the 
guilt  of  Holt  and  Elliot.  Success  had  made  him 
arrogant  and  he  was  not  a  good  loser.  He  hated 
the  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  Sheba,  but  he 
could  not  escape  respecting  him.  Elliot  had 
fought  until  he  had  been  hammered  down  into 
unconsciousness  and  he  had  crawled  to  his  feet 

306 


The  Yukon  Trail 

and  stood  erect  with  the  smile  of  the  unconquered 
on  his  lips.  Was  this  the  sort  of  man  to  murder 
in  cold  blood  a  kindly  old  gentleman  who  had 
never  harmed  him? 

The  only  answer  Macdonald  found  was  that 
Milton  had  taken  him  and  his  partners  by  sur 
prise.  They  had  been  driven  to  shoot  the  cashier 
to  cover  up  their  crime.  Perhaps  Holt  or  another 
had  fired  the  actual  shots,  but  Elliot  was  none 
the  less  guilty.  The  heart  of  the  Scotchman  was 
bitter  within  him.  He  intended  to  see  that  his 
enemies  paid  to  the  last  ounce.  He  would  harry 
them  to  the  gallows  if  money  and  influence  could 
doit. 

None  the  less,  his  doubts  persisted.  If  they 
had  planned  the  bank  robbery,  why  did  they 
wait  so  long  to  buy  supplies  for  their  escape? 
Why  had  they  not  taken  the  river  instead  of  the 
hill  trail?  The  story  that  his  enemies  told  hung 
together.  It  had  the  ring  of  truth.  The  facts 
supported  it. 

One  piece  of  evidence  in  their  favor  Macdonald 
alone  knew.  It  lay  buried  in  the  deep  snows  of 
the  hills.  He  shut  his  strong  teeth  in  the  firm 
resolve  that  it  should  stay  there. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SHEBA   DIGS 

THE  weather  had  moderated  a  good  deal,  but 
the  trail  was  a  protected  forest  one.  The  two 
teams  now  going  down  had  come  up,  so  that  the 
path  was  packed  fairly  hard  and  smooth.  Holt 
lay  propped  on  his  own  sled  against  the  sleeping- 
bags.  Sheba  mushed  behind  Gordon.  She  chatted 
with  them  both,  but  ignored  entirely  the  exist 
ence  of  Macdonald,  who  followed  with  his  prize- 
winning  Siberian  dogs. 

Though  she  tried  not  to  let  her  lover  know  it, 
Sheba  was  troubled  at  heart.  Gordon  was  prac 
tically  the  prisoner  of  a  man  who  hated  him 
bitterly,  who  believed  him  guilty  of  murder,  and 
who  would  go  through  fire  to  bring  punishment 
home  to  him.  She  knew  the  power  of  Macdonald. 
With  the  money  back  of  him,  he  had  for  two 
years  fought  against  and  almost  prevailed  over  a 
strong  public  opinion  in  the  United  States.  He 
was  as  masterful  in  his  hatred  as  in  his  love.  The 
dominant,  fighting  figure  in  the  Northwest,  he 
trod  his  sturdy  way  through  opposition  like  a 
Colossus. 

Nor  did  she  any  longer  have  any  illusions 
308 


The  Yukon  Trail 

about  him.  He  could  be  both  ruthless  and  unscru 
pulous  when  it  suited  his  purpose.  As  the  day 
wore  toward  noon,  her  spirits  drooped.  She  was 
tired  physically,  and  this  reacted  upon  her 
courage. 

The  warmer  weather  was  spoiling  the  trail.  It 
became  so  soft  and  mushy  that  though  snow- 
shoes  were  needed,  they  could  not  be  worn  on 
account  of  the  heavy  snow  which  clung  to  them 
every  time  a  foot  was  lifted.  They  wore  mukluks, 
but  Sheba  was  wet  to  the  knees.  The  spring  had 
gone  from  her  step.  Her  shoulders  began  to  sag. 

For  some  time  Gordon's  eye  had  been  seeking 
a  good  place  for  a  day  camp.  He  found  it  in  a  bit 
of  open  timber  above  the  trail,  and  without  a 
word  he  swung  his  team  from  the  path. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  demanded  Mac- 
donald. 

"Going  to  rest  for  an  hour,"  was  Elliot's  curt 
answer. 

Macdonald's  jaw  clamped.  He  strode  forward 
through  the  snow  beside  the  trail.  "We'll  see 
about  that." 

The  younger  man  faced  him  angrily.  "Can't 
you  see  she  is  done,  man?  There  is  not  another 
mile  of  travel  in  her  until  she  has  rested." 

The  hard,  gray  eyes  of  the  Alaskan  took  in  the 
slender,  weary  figure  leaning  against  the  sled. 
On  a  soft  and  mushy  trail  like  this,  where  every 

309 


The  Yukon  Trail 

footstep  punched  a  hole  in  the  loose  snow,  the 
dogs  could  not  travel  with  any  extra  weight.  A 
few  miles  farther  down  they  would  come  to  a 
main-traveled  road  and  the  going  would  be  bet 
ter.  But  till  then  she  must  walk.  Macdonald 
gave  way  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand  and  turned 
on  his  heel. 

At  the  camp-fire  Sheba  dried  her  mukluks, 
stockings,  caribou  mitts,  and  short  skirts.  Too 
tired  to  eat,  she  forced  herself  to  swallow  a  few 
bites  and  drank  eagerly  some  tea.  Gordon  had 
brought  blankets  from  the  sled  and  he  persuaded 
her  to  lie  down  for  a  few  minutes. 

"You'll  call  me  soon  if  I  should  sleep,"  she 
said  drowsily,  and  her  eyes  were  closed  almost 
before  the  words  were  off  her  lips. 

When  Macdonald  came  to  order  the  start  half 
an  hour  later,  she  was  still  asleep.  "Give  her 
another  thirty  minutes,"  he  said  gruffly. 

Youth  is  resilient.  Sheba  awoke  rested  and 
ready  for  work. 

While  Gordon  was  untangling  the  dogs  she 
was  left  alone  for  a  minute  with  the  mine-owner. 

The  hungry  look  in  his  eyes  touched  her.  Im 
pulsively  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"You're  going  to  be  fair,  aren't  you,  Mr. 
Macdonald?  Because  you  —  don't  like  him  — 
you  won't  — ?" 

He  looked  straight  into  the  dark,  appealing 
310 


The  Yukon  Trail 

eyes.  '"I'm  going  to  be  fair  to  Robert  Milton," 
he  told  her  harshly.  "I'm  going  to  see  his  mur 
derers  hanged  if  it  costs  me  every  dollar  I  have 
in  the  world." 

"None  of  us  object  to  justice,"  she  told  him 
proudly.  "  Gordon  has  nothing  to  fear  if  only  the 
truth  is  told." 

"Then  why  come  to  me?"  he  demanded. 

She  hesitated;  then  with  a  wistful  little  smile, 
spoke  what  was  in  her  heart.  "I'm  afraid  you 
won't  do  justice  to  yourself.  You  're  good  —  and 
brave  —  and  strong.  But  you  're  very  willful  and 
set.  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  friend.  I  want  to 
know  that  he  is  all  I  have  believed  him  —  a  great 
man  who  stands  for  the  things  that  are  fine  and 
clean  and  just." 

"Then  it  is  for  my  sake  and  not  for  his  that 
you  want  me  to  drop  the  case  against  Elliot?" 
he  asked  ironically. 

"For  yours  and  for  his,  too.  You  can't  hurt 
him.  Nobody  can  really  be  hurt  from  outside  — 
not  unless  he  is  a  traitor  to  himself.  And  Gordon 
Elliot  is  n't  that.  He  could  n't  do  such  a  thing 
as  this  with  which  you  charge  him.  It  is  not  in 
his  nature.  He  can  explain  everything." 

"I  don't  doubt  that.  He  and  his  friend  Holt 
are  great  little  explainers." 

In  spite  of  his  bitterness  Sheba  felt  a  change  in 
him.  She  seemed  to  have  a  glimpse  of  his  turbid 

311 


The  Yukon  Trail 

soul  engaged  in  battle.  He  turned  away  without 
shaking  hands,  but  it  struck  her  that  he  was  not 
implacable. 

While  they  were  at  luncheon  half  a  dozen  pack- 
mules  laden  with  supplies  for  a  telephone  con 
struction  line  outfit  had  passed.  Their  small, 
sharp-shod  hoofs  had  punched  sink-holes  in  the 
trail  at  every  step.  Instead  of  a  smooth  bottom 
the  dogs  found  a  slushy  bog  cut  to  pieces. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  of  wallowing  Macdonald 
called  a  halt. 

"There  is  a  cutoff  just  below  here.  It  will  save 
us  nearly  two  miles,  but  we  '11  have  to  break  trail. 
Swing  to  the  right  just  below  the  big  willow,"  he 
told  Elliot.  "I'll  join  you  presently  and  relieve 
you  on  the  job.  But  first  Miss  O'Neill  and  I  are 
going  for  a  little  side  trip." 

All  three  of  them  looked  at  him  in  sharp  sur 
prise.  Gordon  opened  his  lips  to  answer  and 
closed  them  again  without  speaking.  Sheba  had 
flashed  a  warning  to  him. 

"I  hope  this  trip  is  n't  very  far  off  the  trail," 
she  said  quietly.  "I'm  just  a  wee  bit  tired." 

"It's  not  far,"  the  mine-owner  said  curtly. 

He  was  busy  unpacking  his  sled.  Presently  he 
found  the  dog  moccasins  for  which  he  had  been 
looking,  repacked  his  sled,  and  fitted  the  shoes 
to  the  bleeding  feet  of  the  team  leader.  Elliot, 
suspicious  and  uncertain  what  to  do,  watched 

312 


The  Yukon  Trail 

him  at  work,  but  at  a  signal  from  Sheba  turned 
reluctantly  away  and  drove  down  to  the  cutoff. 

Macdonald  turned  his  dogs  out  of  the  trail  and 
followed  a  little  ridge  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  Sheba  trudged  behind  him.  She  was  full  of 
wonder  at  what  he  meant  to  do,  but  she  asked  no 
questions.  Some  wise  instinct  was  telling  her  to 
do  exactly  as  he  said. 

From  the  sled  he  took  a  shovel  and  gave  it  to 
the  young  woman.  "Dig  just  this  side  of  the  big 
rock  —  close  to  the  root  of  the  tree,"  he  told  her. 

Sheba  dug,  and  at  the  second  stroke  of  the 
spade  struck  something  hard.  He  stooped  and 
pulled  out  a  sack. 

"Open  it,"  he  said.    "Rip  it  with  this  knife." 

She  ran  the  knife  along  the  coarse  weave  of  the 
cloth.  Fifteen  or  twenty  smaller  sacks  lay  ex 
posed.  Sheba  looked  up  at  Macdonald,  a  startled 
question  in  her  eyes. 

He  nodded.  "You've  guessed  it.  This  is  part 
of  the  gold  for  which  Robert  Milton  was  mur 
dered." 

"But  —  how  did  it  get  here?" 

"I  buried  it  there  yesterday.   Come." 

He  led  her  around  the  rock.  Back  of  it  lay 
something  over  which  was  spread  a  long  bit  of 
canvas.  The  heart  of  Sheba  was  beating  wildly. 

The  Scotchman  looked  at  her  from  a  rock- 
bound  face.  "Underneath  this  canvas  is  the  body 

313 


The  Yukon  Trail 

of  one  of  the  men  who  murdered  Milton.  He  died 
more  miserably  than  the  man  he  shot.  Half  the 
gold  stolen  from  the  bank  is  in  that  gunnysack 
you  have  just  dug  up.  If  you'll  tell  me  who  has 
the  other  half,  I'll  tell  you  who  helped  him  rob 
the  bank." 

"This  man  —  who  is  he?  "  asked  Sheba,  almost 
in  a  whisper.  She  was  trembling  with  excitement 
and  nervousness. 

Macdonald  drew  back  the  cloth  and  showed 
the  rough,  hard  face  of  a  workingman. 

"His  name  was  Trelawney.  I  kicked  him 
out  of  our  camps  because  he  was  a  trouble 
maker." 

"  He  was  one  of  the  men  that  robbed  you  later ! " 
she  exclaimed. 

"Yes.  And  now  he  has  tried  to  rob  me  again 
and  has  paid  for  it  with  his  life." 

Her  mind  flashed  back  over  the  past.  "Then 
his  partner  in  this  last  crime  must  have  been  the 
same  man  —  what's  his  name?  —  that  was  with 
him  last  time." 

"Northrup."  He  nodded  slowly.  "I  hate  to 
believe  it,  but  it  is  probably  true.  And  he,  too,  is 
lying  somewhere  in  this  park  covered  with  snow 
—  if  our  guess  is  right." 

"And  Gordon  —  you  admit  he  did  n't  do  it?" 

Again  he  nodded,  sulkily.  "No.  He  didn't 
do  it." 

314 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Joy  lilted  in  her  voice.  "So  you've  brought 
me  here  to  tell  me.  Oh,  I  am  glad,  my  friend,  that 
you  were  so  good.  And  it  is  like  you  to  do  it.  You 
have  always  been  the  good  friend  to  me." 

The  Scotchman  smiled,  a  little  wistfully.  "You 
take  a  mean  advantage  of  a  man.  You  nurse  him 
when  he  is  ill  —  and  are  kind  to  him  when  he  is 
well  —  and  try  to  love  him,  though  he  is  twice 
your  age  and  more.  Then,  when  his  enemy  is  in 
his  power,  he  finds  he  can't  strike  him  down 
without  striking  you  too.  Take  your  young  man, 
Sheba  O'Neill,  and  marry  him,  and  for  God's 
sake,  get  him  out  of  Alaska  before  I  come  to 
grips  with  him  again.  I  'm  not  a  patient  man,  and 
he's  tried  me  sair.  They  say  I'm  a  good  hater, 
and  I  always  thought  it  true.  But  what's  the  use 
of  hating  a  man  when  your  soft  arms  are  round 
him  for  an  armor?" 

The  fine  eyes  of  the  girl  were  wells  of  warm 
light.  Her  gladness  was  not  for  herself  and  her 
lover  only,  but  for  the  friend  that  had  been  so 
nearly  lost  and  was  now  found.  He  believed  he 
had  done  it  for  her,  but  Sheba  was  sure  his  rea 
sons  lay  deeper.  He  was  too  much  of  a  man  to 
hide  evidence  and  let  his  rival  be  falsely  accused 
of  murder.  It  was  not  in  him  to  do  a  cheap  thing 
like  that.  When  it  came  to  the  pinch,  he  was  too 
decent  to  stab  in  the  back.  But  she  was  willing 
to  take  him  on  his  own  ground. 

315 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"I  '11  always  be  thanking  you  for  your  goodness 
to  me,"  she  told  him  simply. 

He  brushed  that  aside  at  once.  "There's  one 
thing  more,  lass.  I'll  likely  not  be  seeing  you 
again  alone,  so  I  '11  say  it  now.  Don't  waste  any 
tears  on  Colby  Macdonald.  Don't  fancy  any 
story-book  foolishness  about  spoiling  his  life. 
That  may  be  true  of  halfling  boys,  maybe,  but 
a  man  goes  his  ain  gait  even  when  he  gets  a  bit 
facer." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  And  in  a  flash  she  saw 
what  would  happen,  that  in  the  reaction  from  his 
depression  he  would  turn  to  Genevieve  Mallory 
and  marry  her. 

"You're  too  young  for  me,  anyhow,  —  too 
soft  and  innocent.  Once  you  told  me  that  you 
couldn't  keep  step  with  me.  It's  true.  You 
can't.  It  was  a  daft  dream." 

He  took  a  deep  breath,  seemed  to  shake  him 
self  out  of  it,  and  smiled  cheerfully  upon  her. 

"We'll  put  our  treasure-trove  on  the  sled  and 
go  back  to  your  friends,"  he  continued  briskly. 
"To-morrow  I'll  send  men  up  to  scour  the  hills 
for  Northrup's  body." 

Sheba  drew  the  canvas  back  over  the  face  of 
the  dead  man.  As  she  followed  Macdonald  back 
to  the  trail,  tears  filled  her  eyes.  She  was  remem 
bering  that  the  white,  stinging  death  that  had 
crept  upon  these  men  so  swiftly  had  missed  her 

316 


The  Yukon  Trail 

by  a  hair's  breadth.  The  strong,  lusty  life  had 
been  stricken  out  of  the  big  Cornishman  and 
probably  of  his  partner  in  crime.  Perhaps  they 
had  left  mothers  or  wives  or  sweethearts  to  mourn 
them. 

Macdonald  relieved  Elliot  at  breaking  trail 
and  the  young  man  went  back  to  the  gee-pole. 
They  had  discarded  mukluks  and  wore  moccasins 
and  snowshoes.  It  was  hard,  slow  work,  for  the 
trail-breaker  had  to  fight  his  way  through  snow 
along  the  best  route  he  could  find.  The  moon 
was  high  when  at  last  they  reached  the  road- 
house. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DIANE   CHANGES   HER  MIND 

THE  news  of  Sheba's  safety  had  been  tele 
phoned  to  Diane  from  the  roadhouse,  so  that  all 
the  family  from  Peter  down  were  on  the  porch  to 
welcome  her  with  mingled  tears  and  kisses.  Since 
Gordon  had  to  push  on  to  the  hospital  to  have 
Holt  taken  care  of,  it  was  Macdonald  who 
brought  the  girl  home.  The  mine-owner  declined 
rather  brusquely  an  invitation  to  stay  to  dinner 
on  the  plea  that  he  had  business  at  the  office 
which  would  not  wait. 

Impulsively  Sheba  held  out  both  her  hands  to 
him.  "Believe  me,  I  am  thanking  you  with  the 
whole  of  my  heart,  my  friend.  And  I'm  praying 
for  you  the  old  Irish  blessing,  'God  save  you 
kindly.'" 

The  deep-set,  rapacious  eyes  of  the  Scotchman 
burned  into  hers  for  an  instant.  Without  a  word 
he  released  her  hands  and  turned  away. 

Her  eyes  followed  him,  a  vital,  dynamic  Amer 
ican  who  would  do  big,  lawless  things  to  the  day 
of  his  death.  She  sighed.  He  had  been  a  great 
figure  in  her  life,  and  now  he  had  passed  out 
of  it. 

318 


The  Yukon  Trail 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  Diane,  her  Irish 
cousin  dropped  the  little  bomb  she  had  up  her 
sleeve. 

"I'm  going  to  be  married  Thursday,  Di." 

Mrs.  Paget  embraced  her  for  the  tenth  time 
within  the  hour.  She  was  very  fond  of  Sheba, 
and  she  had  been  on  a  great  strain  concerning  her 
safety.  That  out  of  her  danger  had  resulted  the 
engagement  Diane  had  hoped  for  was  surplusage 
of  good  luck. 

"You  lucky,  sensible  girl." 

Sheba  assented  demurely.  "I  do  think  I'm 
sensible  as  well  as  lucky.  It  is  n't  every  girl  that 
knows  the  right  man  for  her  even  when  he  wants 
her.  But  I  know  at  last.  He's  the  man  for  me 
out  of  ten  million." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,  dear.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad." 
Diane  hugged  her  again.  She  could  n't  help  it. 

"One  gets  to  know  a  man  pretty  well  on  a  trip 
like  that.  I  would  n't  change  mine  for  any  one 
that  was  ever  made.  I  like  everything  about  him, 
Di.  I  am  the  happiest  girl." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  see  it  that  way  at  last." 
Diane  passed  to  the  practical  aspect  of  the  situa 
tion.  "But  Thursday.  Will  that  give  us  time, 
my  dear?  And  who  are  you  going  to  have  here?  " 

"Just  the  family.  I've  invited  two  guests,  but 
neither  of  them  can  come.  One  has  a  broken  leg 
and  the  other  says  he  does  n't  want  to  see  me 

319 


The  Yukon  Trail 

married  to  another  man,"  Sheba  explained  with 
a  smile. 

"So  Gordon  won't  come." 

"Yes.  He'll  have  to  be  here.  We  can't  get 
along  without  the  bridegroom.  It  would  n't  be  a 
legal  marriage,  would  it?" 

Diane  looked  at  her,  for  the  moment  dumb. 
"You  little  wretch!"  she  got  out  at  last.  "So 
it's  Gordon,  is  it?  Are  you  quite  sure  this  time? 
Not  likely  to  change  your  mind  before  Thurs- 
day?" 

"I  suppose,  to  an  outsider,  I  do  seem  fickle," 
Miss  O'Neill  admitted  smilingly.  "But  Gordon 
and  I  both  understand  that." 

"And  Colby  Macdonald  —  does  he  understand 
it  too?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Her  smile  grew  broader.  "He  told 
me  that  he  did  n't  think  I  would  quite  suit  him, 
after  all.  Not  enough  experience  for  the  place." 

Diane  flashed  a  suspicious  look  of  inquiry. 
"Of  course  that's  nonsense.  What  did  he  tell 
you?" 

"Something  like  that.  He  will  marry  Mrs. 
Mallory,  I  think,  though  he  does  n't  know  it 

yet." 

"You  mean  she  will  get  him  on  the  rebound," 
said  Diane  bluntly. 

"That  is  n't  a  nice  way  to  put  it.  He  has  al 
ways  liked  her  very  much.  He  is  fond  of  her  for 

320 


The  Yukon  Trail 

what  she  is.  What  attracted  him  in  me  were  the 
things  his  imagination  gave  to  me." 

"And  Gordon  likes  you,  I  suppose,  for  what 
you  are?" 

Sheba  did  not  resent  the  little  note  of  friendly 
sarcasm.  "I  suppose  he  has  his  fancies  about  me, 
too,  but  by  the  time  he  finds  out  what  I  am  he'll 
have  to  put  up  with  me." 

The  arrival  of  Elliot  interrupted  confidences. 
He  had  come,  he  said,  to  receive  congratula 
tions. 

"What  in  the  world  have  you  been  doing  with 
your  face?"  demanded  Diane.  As  an  after 
thought  she  added:  "Mr.  Macdonald  is  all  cut 
up  too." 

"We've  been  taking  massage  treatment." 
Gordon  passed  to  a  subject  of  more  immediate 
interest.  "Do  I  get  my  congratulations,  Di?" 

She  kissed  him,  too,  for  old  sake's  sake.  "I  do 
believe  you'll  suit  Sheba  better  than  Colby 
Macdonald  would.  He's  a  great  man  and  you 
are  not.  But  it  is  n't  everybody  that  is  fit  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  great  man." 

"That's  a  double,  left-handed  compliment," 
laughed  Gordon.  "But  you  can't  say  anything 
that  will  hurt  my  feelings  to-day,  Di.  Is  n't  that 
your  baby  I  hear  crying?  What  a  heartless 
mother  you  are!" 

Diane  gave  him  the  few  minutes  alone  with 
321 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Sheba  that  his  gay  smile  had  asked  for.  "  Get  out 
with  you,"  she  said,  laughing.  "Go  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  and  look  at  the  lovers'  moon  I  've  ordered 
there  expressly  for  you;  and  while  you  are  there 
forget  that  there  are  going  to  be  crying  babies 
and  nursemaids  with  evenings  out  in  that  golden 
future  of  yours." 

"Come  along,  Sheba.  We'll  start  now  on  the 
golden  trail,"  said  Elliot. 

She  walked  as  if  she  loved  it.  Her  long,  slen 
der  legs  moved  rhythmically  and  her  arms  swung 
true  as  pendulums. 

The  moon  was  all  that  Diane  had  promised. 
Sheba  drank  it  in  happily. 

"I  believe  I  must  be  a  pagan.  I  love  the  sun 
and  the  moon  and  I  know  it's  all  true  about  the 
little  folk  and  the  pied  piper  and  — " 

"If  it's  paganism  to  be  in  love  with  the  world, 
you  are  a  thirty-third  degree  pagan." 

"Well,  and  was  there  ever  a  more  beautiful 
night  before?" 

He  thought  not,  but  he  had  not  the  words  to 
tell  her  that  for  him  its  beauty  lay  largely  in  her 
presence.  Her  passionate  love  of  things  fine  and 
brave  transformed  the  universe  for  him.  It  was 
enough  for  him  to  be  near  her,  to  hear  the  laugh 
ter  bubbling  in  her  throat,  to  touch  her  crisp, 
blue-black  hair  as  he  adjusted  the  scarf  about  her 
head. 

322 


FOR  HIM  THE  BEAUTY  OF  THE  NIGHT  LAY  LARGELY  IN  HER 
PRESENCE 


The  Yukon  Trail 

"  God  made  the  night,"  he  replied.  "So  that 's 
a  Christian  thought  as  well  as  a  pagan  one." 

They  were  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  lovers 
are  egoists.  The  world  for  them  to-night  divided 
itself  into  two  classes.  One  included  Sheba 
O'Neill  and  Gordon  Elliot;  the  other  took  in  the 
uninteresting  remnant  of  humanity.  No  matter 
how  far  afield  their  talk  began,  it  always  came 
back  to  themselves.  They  wanted  to  know  all 
about  each  other,  to  compare  experiences  and 
points  of  view.  But  time  fled  too  fast  for  words. 
They  talked  —  as  lovers  will  to  the  end  of  time 
—  in  exclamations  and  the  meeting  of  eyes  and 
little  endearments. 

When  Diane  and  Peter  found  them  on  the  hill 
top,  Sheba  protested,  with  her  half-shy,  half- 
audacious  smile,  that  it  could  not  be  two  hours 
since  she  and  Gordon  had  left  the  living-room. 
Peter  grinned.  He  remembered  a  hilltop  conse 
crated  to  his  own  courtship  of  Diane. 

The  only  wedding  present  that  Macdonald 
sent  Sheba  was  a  long  envelope  with  two  docu 
ments  attached  by  a  clip.  One  was  from  the 
Kusiak  "Sun."  It  announced  that  the  search 
party  had  found  the  body  of  Northrup  with  the 
rest  of  the  stolen  gold  beside  him.  The  other  was 
a  copy  of  a  legal  document.  Its  effect  was  that 
the  district  attorney  had  dismissed  all  charges 
pending  against  Gordon  Elliot. 

323 


The  Yukon  Trail 

Although  Macdonald  lost  the  coal  claims  at 
Kamatlah  by  reason  of  the  report  of  Elliot,  all 
Alaska  still  believes  that  he  was  right.  In  that 
country  of  strong  men  he  stands  head  and  shoul 
ders  above  his  fellows.  He  has  the  fortunate  gift 
of  commanding  the  admiration  of  friend  and  foe 
alike.  The  lady  who  is  his  wife  is  secretly  the 
greatest  of  his  slaves,  but  she  tries  not  to  let  him 
know  how  much  he  has  captured  her  imagination. 
For  Genevieve  Macdonald  cannot  quite  under 
stand,  herself,  how  so  elemental  an  emotion  as 
love  can  have  pierced  the  armor  of  her  sophisti 
cation. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .   A 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


• 

U^s 

QoMau'KQBfl 

—  -^t>.~      •.','•  .. 

.  *ncQ  ! 

MAY14 

to<r* 

»£             ^ 

nIu!'5fi"W 

SWU5 

JULl  S19fc^, 

f     i«k  If 

JISpTv* 

AUG    8  Wfel 

LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 

YB  68451 


M15815 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


